


On the Streets of New York

by shadowed_sunsets



Category: Sherlock (TV), White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - White Collar Fusion, Crime drama-esque, F/M, Gen, Greg and Molly are happily married, John is an active unofficial participant, Lestrade is his FBI handler, Mycroft runs the entire NY White Collar division, Sherlock & John epic friendship, Sherlock is a criminal (sort of), Some angst, casefic-ish, familiarity with White Collar not neccessary, reworked ACD canon stories and White Collar episode plots, setting- New York City, together they solve crime! in New York
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-15
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-08-22 10:47:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 57,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8283157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowed_sunsets/pseuds/shadowed_sunsets
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is a former member of Moriaty’s crime network in New York, incarcerated after its take down by the FBI. Then with just months left on his sentence Sherlock suddenly escapes from prison, and after being caught (again) offers a breaking lead in FBI Special Agent Greg Lestrade’s current case. So Agent Lestrade has a decision to make: let Sherlock serve out his entire sentence in prison again, or bring him on as a criminal consultant for the FBI with just a GPS anklet to track his movements. What follows is a whirlwind of nearly impossible cases, colorful characters, and a sinister presence lurking just behind the scenes.





	1. There's Something About Sherlock (part 1)

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the pilot episode of my falltvsherlock story! This is a fusion with the show White Collar, but I don't believe its necessary to have seen any of the show. Actually I had been thinking off and on about this idea for a while, so I'm glad I finally have the excuse to write it!
> 
> All the thanks to pipmer, who has not only been a wonderful beta-er but also an awesome cheerleader and listener! And thanks to the mods of the Sherlock fall tv fusion. Please go check out the other stories!
> 
> I hope you all enjoy! All kudos and comments welcome :)
> 
> I will be posting on Fridays (possibly every other). There will be eight episodes in total, including a finale!

Greg Lestrade, Special Agent in the New York office of the White Collar division of the FBI, was already not having the best day when, while standing around the remnants of yet another priceless Napoleon bust, he got a call from the Marshal's Office.

It hadn’t been the worst bad day he’d had, not by far. But it seemed like the universe had a vendetta against making things go right for him today.

First the alarm hadn’t gone off properly that morning, leaving him and Molly to run around their home trying to get ready in time. Then traffic had been awful on his way into work, and his GPS system had sent him on an idiotically roundabout way of getting to the building. After that, once he’d stepped foot into the office Anthea had practically pounced on him with files Mycroft Holmes needed his signature on right away (and no you can’t even stop and get coffee first), because that was how the ASAC of the New York White Collar division worked. (Once he was at his desk reluctantly signing away, Anthea had popped in with a wonderful fresh, hot cup of coffee).

Then, Sally had poked her head into his office while he was reviewing the stack of case files on his desk to tell him there was news of yet another priceless Napoleon bust being smashed for what seemed like no reason at all.

It had been nearly a week since their last report of a Napoleon bust being smashed. And while they had brought in and questioned the person that eyewitnesses claimed had smashed the bust, they were still no closer to figuring out the reason behind the sudden surge in violence against Napoleon busts.

So Greg, Anthea, and Sally had all piled into his car and fought traffic to arrive at the latest place where violence had occurred against a bust of Napoleon. This time it was at a private doctor’s residence, which doubled as the doctor's office where he saw his patients. Since it was a private practice, and the doctor was able to choose his well-to-do patients personally, they had to step lightly. It was one of the consequences of working in the White Collar division: sometimes privilege and wealth were unavoidable roadblocks to fulfilling justice. People were more insistent on recovering their property or coming to an agreement than finding justice or the loss of their items.

Luckily the doctor turned out to be very agreeable, and willing to help them in any way possible. Maybe a little _too_ enthusiastic. He seemed very eager to find who had not only smashed his Napoleon bust to pieces in the middle of his living room, but had also burgled his private residence.

As they inspected every inch of the doctor’s residence, and dusted for fingerprints on surfaces and objects that seemed to have been moved, the doctor was almost a constant presence hovering over their shoulders. He didn’t seem to mind them moving items or furniture, but he did sulk a little over his smashed bust. Of course it was priceless, and in rare supply these days. But Greg just didn’t understand the appeal.

Sally was off finding an evidence bag to put the many intact and not so intact pieces of the bust for safe return to the office. Anthea had cleverly distracted the doctor by asking about security for the building and his rooms. While the other officers were milling about collecting evidence and attempting to dust for prints.

So Greg was alone when his phone gave a shrill, demanding ring in the pocket of his jacket. Feeling half-afraid it might be Molly or Mycroft with an impending disaster, Greg fished it out and slid his thumb across the screen to answer.

“This is Special Agent Lestrade.”

“Special Agent Lestrade, this is Peter Ellington from the U.S. Marshal's office,” a man’s voice on the other end replied. He didn’t sound like he was very excited to be making this call, and if the slight waver to his voice was any sign it wasn’t his choice.

“What can I do for you Mr. Ellington?” Greg asked, glancing across the room to see Sally returning to the pile of smashed Napoleon bust debris with an over-large evidence bag.

“Well, I’m afraid that,” the man coughed, then finished the rest of his sentence all in one rushed breath, “Sherlock Holmes has escaped from the prison where he was being held.”

The edges of Greg’s vision wavered slightly, and his knees threatened to buckle. “What?” He had to stop and clear his throat to get his voice back to a proper pitch. “What did you just say?”

“I’m afraid that prisoner Sherlock Holmes escaped from the maximum security prison he’s been held in the last four years.” The man from the U.S. Marshal’s office repeated himself quickly. “At approximately 9:34 this morning. We’re currently in pursuit trying to locate him now, but…”

“He’s Sherlock Holmes,” Greg summarized in only three words the entire frustrating two years of working to finally take down and arrest the man and the entire criminal organization he was involved in.

Greg sighed and pinched the bridge of nose, huffing out a breath. “Ah, hell.”

He spaced out for a few seconds, trying to think of what the hell had just happened and how the hell Sherlock Holmes had managed to escape the maximum security prison where he had served nearly the entire four years of his sentence.

He was well aware that in addition to his genius mind Sherlock had many skills in the not so legal area of the law, and was an excellent actor when he chose.

But really? Escaping from prison suddenly out of the blue and with only months left on his sentence? Something else must be going on.

“Sir?” Ellington from the U.S. Marshall’s asked sharply, regaining Greg’s attention. “Are you still there?”

“Yes, yes I’m here,” Greg answered opening his eyes again. He was met with the sight of Sally standing a few feet away now giving him a very worried look and holding a full oversized evidence bag.

“Like I said, sir,” Ellington continued, “we’re currently trying to locate him. We’ve set up roadblocks and checks along all routes from the prison into the city, and alerted the airport and transit stations, but there hasn't been any news yet.”

Greg laughed weakly at the idea that such things could possibly stop Sherlock Holmes. “Yeah, you won’t catch him that way.”

Sally gave him a wide-eyed look, silently but impatiently insisting he bring her in the loop. He held up a finger to convince her to wait just one more minute, and turned around.

“Why are you calling me about this? I’m sure you’ll manage to catch him.” Greg reassured the Marshall while silently adding, ‘eventually.’

Ellington sighed softly, just a breath. But his voice was quieter when he continued, “Sir, you managed to bring down the entire Moriarty organization and put most of its members behind bars for good. You were also the one who found and brought in Sherlock Holmes. You are absolutely the right man for this.”

Of course he was. Because he didn’t have the serial Napoleon bust smashing case, or other cases, to juggle right now. And their success hadn't been because of all the long, exhaustive work from Sally and Anthea and other agents to finally bring Moriarty to justice and bring Sherlock in.

“All right, Ellington. You can officially bring me in on this,” Greg quickly decided, because apparently the entire part of his life involving Sherlock and the Moriarty organization wasn’t finished yet. And, even being modest, he was the most knowledgeable and experienced agent in this area. “I’ll send two agents over to the prison to help figure out exactly how he managed to escape and to look for any clues. In the meantime I’ll go back to the office and put together everything I have on Sherlock Holmes. It isn’t much but hopefully there will be something to help us find him.”

“Thank you sir,” Ellington said, sounding actually grateful. Interdepartmental cooperation was such a wonderful thing. “I’ll call you as soon as we have anything. Please let us know if you find anything.”

“I will,” Greg promised, pointing a finger at Sally then at Anthea (who looked like she was waiting to tell him something) and beckoned them over. “Listen Ellington, Sherlock Holmes may have a…” He checked his watch to be accurate. “Almost three hour lead on us, but we will find him. Whatever reason he had for escaping, it was logical to him.”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line, and Greg worried for a second Ellington had hung up on him. Then the other man said slowly, sounding very confused, “Yes...sir. I’ll wait for your call.”

A few seconds later there was a click as Ellington did end the call. Greg lowered the phone and dropped it into the pocket of his jacket.

“Greg?” Sally’s voice asked, reading the tension in his posture and speaking anxiously. “What’s happened?”

He slowly turned to look at her, noticing the worried frown she was wearing. Anthea was standing just a step behind her, holding a notebook to her chest and looking calmer than Sally but still worried.

When Greg had first start working with Anthea, and Mycroft by extension, he had found her hard to read and tell what she was thinking. But it hadn’t taken him long to learn that the calm, expressionless front was a facade; and she was actually an intelligent, humorous, kind, and more than capable agent.

“That was the Marshal's office,” Greg started off, rubbing the back of his head from a long-standing habit. “They had some… bad news… to share.”

“‘Bad news’?” Sally echoed, making a face.

“It looks like it was more than just bad news,” Anthea observed quietly, her lips pressed tightly together. “You’re making that face.”

“What face?” Greg asked getting distracted. “There is no face.”

“There kind of is, boss.” Sally spoke up, siding with Anthea. She pointed a finger at him. “It’s that one actually.”

“There is no face!” Greg protested, waving a hand to brush aside their comments. “Anyway, the ‘bad news’ is that Ellington from the Marshal’s office just called to tell me that roughly three hours ago Sherlock Holmes escaped from the prison he’s been held in the last four years.”

Silence met his announcement. Silence that lasted a few long, stunned seconds before both Anthea and Sally started talking at once. A pretty good sign they’d been working together for too long.

“‘Sherlock Holmes’? You mean the criminal who was a key part of the Moriarty organization and who you put away for exactly that?”

“Sherlock? Mr. Holmes’ brother, Sherlock? He’s been in prison for four years, and his sentence is nearly done. Why would he run?”

Greg held up his hands to silence them, which worked effectively enough to get them to close their mouths (for now). “I don’t know, yet. But we will know soon enough. Because you two are going to visit the prison and take a look at his cell. Look for anything that might give us a clue why he ran, and just the hell how he managed to escape. Talk to the guards, anyone he had regular contact with. You know the drill.”

Sally and Anthea gave him agreeing nods. Which was good that they were apparently listening. Then Sally cocked her head to the side and slowly raised her hand. And Anthea’s mouth twitched slightly.

Greg sighed quietly, his hand twitching at his side in an urge to pinch the bridge of his nose again. It was like dealing with school children sometimes. “Yes, Sally?”

“While we’re giving the entire prison a thorough inspection and interrogating the guards, what are you going to do?” Sally asked, sounding very curious as she lowered her hand.

“Me?” Greg asked with fake levity, not looking forward to this next part at all. “I’ll be going back to the office and pouring over every single piece of information and every file we have related to Sherlock Holmes.” He took a deep breath. “And figuring out how the hell to tell Mycroft that his brother somehow managed to escape from a maximum security prison that was supposed to hold him and keep him safe.”

Anthea and Sally shared a long, silent, knowing look. Greg hated when they did it, he always felt left out on some finely tuned feminine connection the two of them shared.

“I do not envy you being the one to tell Mr. Holmes,” Anthea said lightly, looking back to him. “Just, don’t sugarcoat it. He won’t appreciate that.”

“All right,” Greg said, grateful for the advice seeing as Anthea had known Mycroft for longer than him. “Look after yourselves. And keep in touch.”

“What about the crime scene here?” Sally asked gesturing at the scene around them where some techs were still wandering around taking pictures and dusting for fingerprints.

Greg stopped and looked around them, checking the activity going on. It looked like most of the techs were wrapping up their work, and no one had come to notify him of any surprise findings.

“Pretty sure we’re done here,” Greg announced before calling out to the nearest tech. “Hey, Jones, any luck with finding fingerprints? Or any sign of our mysterious bust smasher?”

Jones, fingerprint kit and brush in hand, stopped dusting a decorative vase and turned towards their small group. He shook his head. “Sorry sir, not yet. Whoever it was, they were very careful.”

“Of course he was,” Sally huffed on a sigh, rubbing her forehead. “Just like at the other two crime scenes.” She gave Greg a significant look, which he didn’t appreciate. “Sorry to say it boss, but we’re not any closer to figuring out exactly who is going around smashing Napoleon busts.”

“In case you’re wondering, there wasn’t any sign of them on the security video either,” Anthea spoke up, waving her notebook containing very detailed notes. “Of course, the respectable doctor only has cameras in the hallway in addition to the ones outside the building. He apparently didn’t think he’d need any inside his residence. Or office.”

“Of course not.” Greg echoed on a sigh. “Puts a whole new meaning to private residence and practice. So, you’re right, Sally. We’ve still got nothing.”

“We’ll figure it out boss, you know we will,” Sally offered an impromptu pep talk, looking at both of them. “There’s a reason our team has the highest closing rate in the division.”

“Too right,” Anthea agreed firmly, nodding. “We’ll close this one just like the others.”

They were just seconds away from doing a fistbump. As the two women tended to do when adrenaline ran high and they thought a celebration was needed.

Greg couldn’t help himself; he gave in to his laughter, shoulders shaking. “Alright you two, enough. Enough.” Greg waved a hand, shooing them away. “I appreciate the pep talk, but the two of you need to hightail it to the prison. We’re on the clock right now.”

“Yes, boss,” Sally promised, actually giving him a salute accompanied by a smart grin.

She handed him the evidence bag full of smashed bust remnants then turned away, towards the door. Anthea flashed him a smile and handed over the notebook with her notes, before following after Sally.

Greg waited until they’d walked through the door, arguing over who was going to drive and the best traffic route to the prison. Then he turned to Jones, who was still nearby dusting the rest of the doctor’s decorations. “Keep up the good work Jones, don’t leave any piece in here untouched. We need to be thorough if we don’t want to miss anything.”

“Got it, sir. I’ll make sure we’ll process everything, and I’ll send you a report when we’re done,” Jones promised, as he dusted some kind of trophy on the cabinet.

Really, where had the doctor managed to get all of these things? Although, looking around, a Napoleon bust wouldn’t have been out of place. “I appreciate the hard work, Jones. Thanks,” Greg told the man with a brief pat on the arm.

Then Greg made his way towards the front door, leaving behind the experts to work the scene.

He had places to be himself. Namely the Bureau offices, digging out the multiple binders of files on Sherlock Holmes and Moriarty’s organization.

And spending the entire drive figuring out what was going on with Sherlock and how to break it to Mycroft that his brother was no longer safe. But now in the wind.

 

* * *

 

When he was a few blocks away from the FBI building trying to hurry while not breaking any speed limits, Greg managed to come to a conclusion. His best idea was to not talk to Mycroft until they could have a quiet meeting face-to-face alone so Greg could explain thoroughly. But it was also important to quickly start finding Sherlock since the boy already had a head start. And now they were left stumbling after a genius in his own right who could easily vanish within the large metropolis of New York.

Luckily Greg’s car was a new enough model that through the magic of bluetooth technology he was able to put a call through to the FBI office and one of the desk clerks. Greg waited for it to connect, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel as he stopped at a red light.

After two rings a bored drawl with still just a hint of professionalism left answered, “FBI, this is Anderson.”

Of course it was Anderson who answered. Greg liked the man well enough, and he was mostly competent at his job. But he had a quick temper and took anything that could be considered an insult as a personal affront.

“Anderson, it’s Greg Lestrade. I need you to pull everything we have on the Moriarty organization and on Sherlock Holmes,” Greg instructed, pressing his foot down on the gas pedal as the light turned and he saw an opening in the lane ahead.

“Sherlock Holmes and the Moriarty Organization?” Anderson asked, sounding more alert and eager at the request. “Really? And you want everything: records, case files…”

“Everything, Anderson.” Greg agreed sharply, turning down the street where the entrance to the parking garage was. “Put it all in one of the conference rooms, but don’t tell anyone what you’re doing. We’re keeping this quiet for now.”

“Yes, I understand. I’ll get on that now.”

“Good, I’ll be there in a few minutes.” Greg said, then took a breath. “Thanks, Anderson.” And ended the call.

Fifteen minutes later - god did he hate parking garages - Greg was stepping off the elevators onto the floor of the FBI offices. Well, one of them.

Greg had purposefully bypassed the floor where the special agents were- since his team was out investigating and he had his phone if they tried to call. And Greg wanted to avoid Mycroft until he knew what the hell was going on.

Greg liked Mycroft; he could be stubborn, a pain in the ass, and insistent on doing everything by the book. But Mycroft also believed in him and his agents doing everything possible to close cases. And he refused to be pushed around by any of the higher-ups in government from the FBI to politicians. Which Greg really appreciated.

But Greg really only knew Mycroft from the office and all they talked about was work. He had no idea what Mycroft was like out of the office, if he did ever leave the office. And Mycroft never talked about himself, or about anything personal. Before the name Sherlock Holmes crossed his desk Greg hadn’t even known Mycroft had family in New York. Or family at all.

Then his little brother appeared suddenly, out of the blue, with direct ties and involvement with the Moriarty organization. Which was of course right before everything went to hell.

Greg and his team had been running around trying to find Sherlock and hunt down every loose end in Moriarty’s organization. Mycroft had carefully kept himself detached and publically out of the limelight. But at least once a day, and usually more than once, Mycroft invited Greg into his office, closed the door, and listened as Greg updated and read him in on everything that had happened or they’d found that day.

So Greg knew it was inevitable Mycroft would find out about Sherlock’s escape, either from him or from someone else in the office (probably Anderson). He was racing against a ticking clock.

But Greg still wanted to keep from talking to Mycroft for as long as possible. And get a head start on reading through every single piece of paper in the files they had on Sherlock.

Right after Greg pushed through the double glass doors into the offices he immediately headed towards the conference rooms on one side of the open area of desks.

There weren’t many agents at their desks (there had been a multitude of cases lately) and those that were were all on the phone. So no one noticed Greg pass them and walk quickly towards the conference room where Anderson had left the files.

Anderson had done his job. All the files Greg had asked for were stacked and organized on the conference table, with post-it notes on the top files. There were just as many as Greg remembered, and still just as well-thumbed from his repeated nights of pouring over them both at home and in the office. Luckily Molly was a very understanding FBI wife who didn’t mind but wasn’t overly fond of his long hours.

Greg retraced his steps to close the door of the conference room with a soft click, signaling he didn’t want to be disturbed. He returned to the table and pulled up a chair near the files, grabbed the top file closest to him, and flipped it open. If this didn’t make him need glasses, he’d be surprised.

 

* * *

 

 Three inches-thick files later with no sign of anything that could help find Sherlock, Greg was kicked out of his downward spiraling thoughts by a sharp knock on the door. He jerked upright into a somewhat sitting position in the uncomfortable wooden chair. When he did his elbow nearly slipped where it’d been propped on the surface of the table.

“Yeah?” Greg called towards the door, then coughed when his voice came out rough and called, “Yeah!”

The door swung open behind him as Greg quickly tried to clear up all the papers he’d spread across the table and put them back together into the file. He had gotten some of them shoved into a messy pile when his visitor spoke.

“Already finished with the scene at the doctor’s office, Gregory? I imagine there wasn’t much to find. How unfortunate, isn’t this already the third smashed bust?”

“Mycroft, Jesus!” Greg cursed, scrambling upward from his chair. He accidently messed up his pile of papers with a knock of his elbow, and the stacks of folders were already haphazard. But this was Mycroft, whose office was painstakingly, obsessively neat.

“Not quite,” Mycroft replied with his dry humor, and slipped inside. After closing the door behind him Mycroft came over next to Greg’s chair.

Greg stopped fussing with the files, it was a lost cause anyway, and turned in his chair to look up at Mycroft. “I didn’t see you in your office when I came in; where have you been?” 

Mycroft leaned his hip against the table, looking down at Greg with a vaguely irritated expression. “I was on the phone with a certain politician, a friend of the doctor’s whose residence you just visited. He was not pleased about the doctor’s involvement.”

Greg laughed sharply in response. “Right, well join the list. I’m not very pleased about being unable to get anywhere on this case.”

“I believe this politician was more concerned about the doctor in particular than the crime involving the smashed bust.” Mycroft elaborated, stepping to the side to stand in front of the chair next to Greg’s. “He made it very clear the bust was a gift to the doctor, and in no way an indication of the doctor’s guilt.”

“Well, we’re not looking at the doctor anyway. So your politician can breathe easy.” Greg said, rubbing his temples in the hope that would stave off the headache quickly building.

“Actually, the mystery of the smashed busts is the least of my problems right now.” Greg sighed, leaning back in his chair. He waved a hand at the small wall of files in front of him. “This is the current crisis I’ve been hit with.”

Mycroft turned his gaze away from Greg and shifted to inspect the files more closely. It only took a few seconds before realization dawned on his face, and Greg heard him exhale quietly. “These are all our files on my brother, and Moriarty’s organization.” 

It looked to Greg like he might end up collapsing into the chair behind him, so Greg reached out and pulled it away from the table to give him room just in case.

Mycroft did collapse, but it was much more graceful and controlled. While at same time his expression looked like he was questioning reality. “For nearly four years my brother has been imprisoned, and Moriarty and his band of criminals will be behind bars the rest of their lives. Why revisit these now?”

Greg took in Mycroft’s obvious shock and the worry etched on his face, and decided to just put it all out in the open. “Earlier today your brother somehow managed to escape unnoticed from a high-security prison and disappear somewhere within the city. I got a call from the Marshall’s office when we were at the doctor’s and was put in charge of finding him, since I was the one who brought him in in the first place.”

“He _escaped_ ?” Mycroft repeated sharply. “How on earth did that happen? How did the prison guards _let_ him escape? Sherlock must have had a reason, he would have left clues behind-”

“Mycroft,” Greg said gently, interrupting the other man’s rambling. He had never seen Mycroft so emotional before; usually he was the embodiment of detached emotion and logic. But then again, Sherlock was family.

“I sent Anthea and Sally to the prison to investigate what happened and talk to people. You know they’re the best we have, so if he left anything behind they’ll find it.” Greg gestured at the files and pile of papers in front of him. “And I’m here going through everything we have to figure out why he escaped and where the hell he might have gone. But,” he added hopefully, “I wouldn’t mind a little inside perspective, if you have the time.”

Mycroft gave a hollow little laugh that did not inspire Greg’s confidence. “He may be my brother, Gregory, but that means very little. I haven’t spoken to him in four years, exactly the time since he was incarcerated. As you may remember I spoke at his trial.” He finally turned his head to look at Greg, putting the files out of sight and out of mind for the moment. “Before I saw him from the other side of the courtroom, and before that inside a jail cell, I hadn’t seen Sherlock since the summer before his second year of university.”

Like strings being cut Mycroft’s posture gave way as he stared blindly at the stacks of folders. “After that summer Moriarty got his hands on Sherlock and Sherlock fell into the orbit of Moriarty’s organization. It was inevitable really. Then Sherlock disappeared completely from any method of surveillance I had access to. Which is why he was supposed to be safe during his stay in prison while everyone in Moriarty’s organization was locked away forever.” After a pause Mycroft finally added, quietly, “And now he isn’t safe anymore. He’s somewhere loose  in the city and doing I can only guess at what.”

“That would be why I need your help to find him.” Greg waved a hand at the files, shaking his head. “I’ve gone over three of these so far and they don’t have any information about where Sherlock could possibly have gone. Your brother was surprisingly talented at avoiding surveillance or any tails. There’s nothing in there except what involves Moriarty’s organization. The rest of his life is a very large gap of nothingness.”  

“He’s always been the same way,” Mycroft commented quietly, taking a shallow breath. “I was able to keep an eye on him from a distance at university. Then Moriarty managed to avoid and circumspect any attempts I made to find Sherlock. Or anyone under his power. Once they arrived in the city I thought it would be easier, but Sherlock has always managed to find a way to hide from me when he wants to.” Mycroft kneaded his forehead, and Greg wondered if he was getting a headache from all of this too. “Even in a city with a large amount of surveillance and cameras, I had very little success locating him.”

“So, basically,” Greg summarized, pinching the bridge of his nose, “you don’t know where he’s gone, and you have no way of tracking him. So he’s probably hiding somewhere in the city, if he hasn’t gone further. But either way he’s managed to make an escape.”

“If we find out the reason why Sherlock escaped, it will make it easier to find him,” Mycroft commented thoughtfully, tracing a finger along the inside arm of the chair. He was staring across the table to the window, but Greg didn’t think Mycroft was really seeing it. “Sherlock would have had a very good reason, however impulsive he is. But he won’t have left the city. He’ll stay here, where he knows every block, every alleyway, every corner. It’s comfortable.”

“That doesn’t inspire any confidence about actually being able to find him, surprisingly enough,” Greg laughed. He stretched out his legs and used the leverage to kick his chair a little ways away from the table to see Mycroft better. “I didn’t realize Sherlock knew the city that well. But if you’re sure he’s here, then that’s at least only one place to look. As big as the city is. 

“Mm,” Mycroft hummed quietly, gaze still not entirely focused.

Well that wasn’t any more of an answer. Greg sighed and thought about what to do. Mycroft didn’t have answers, the files didn’t have answers, Sally and Anthea still hadn’t called. Sherlock was somewhere in the city. And they still had no idea why.

Greg's phone rang from the left pocket of the jacket he'd draped over his chair, so he turned sideways to lean down and fish it out. It was still ringing when Greg maneuvered upright again with it in his hand.

“Yes?” Greg answered, a little out of breath. He glanced over at Mycroft to find the man looking amused, sitting properly in his chair with his own phone in his hand. Greg was sure he was the source of Mycroft’s amusement, so he gave the other man a hopefully stern look.

“Boss? It’s Sally, I’m at the prison with Anthea.” Sally spoke quickly, sounding determined. He could hear her voice and one further away that might be Anthea’s, echoing off the walls of a hallway.

“I was waiting for you to call, Sally,” Greg responded. He was about to tease her for taking so long, but then bit it back since Mycroft was in the same room. He wasn’t sure Mycroft would like him teasing the other agents. “Hold on, I’m putting you on speakerphone.”

“What? Boss-” Sally began to protest, her voice tinny. Greg didn’t wait, he moved the phone away from his ear then held it out so he could press the button to put it on speaker.

Once he did, all of a sudden there was a rush of noise from inside the prison. They could hear Anthea’s voice more clearly now; she seemed to be talking sharply to someone who was walking with them. Otherwise it was all yelling of inmates, clanging of metal, and electronic beeping.

“Sally? You can talk now, go ahead.” Greg instructed, reaching out to set the phone on the table between him and Mycroft. “What have you found?”

“Just a second, boss,” Sally said sounding distracted. Then she spoke again with her voice muffled slightly. “Anthea, I think he gets the message. Leave him alone, we’ve got what we need.”

“Completely unprofessional, how does this place even run properly?” Anthea’s quiet voice filtered through the speakers, sounding irritated. “This is why the government gets blamed for nothing getting done. People looking the other way. No wonder he was able to escape.”

“Anthea, Donovan,” Mycroft called firmly without raising his voice. He leaned forward in his chair closer to the phone near Greg. “I would like to hear your progress.”

“Sir!”

“Mr. Holmes?”

“Holmes came in the room while I was reading over the case files,” Greg explained, and reached out to turn the sound up on the phone. “I’ve put the phone on speaker so we can both hear you. And this is an easier way to update us at the same time. So, what did you find?”

“Of course, sir.” Anthea spoke first, after a short pause while Greg expected she and Sally shared a certain look. Together as a pair they were some of the best agents Greg had ever worked with; it was part of why he’d sent them off together to the prison. But since Holmes was in the room now, they were going slightly up the ladder for this one.

“We just finished watching the security camera footage from the last 24 hours, and we found something… unusual,” Sally jumped in quick and professional, and Greg heard the distinctive sound of notebook pages being flipped. “Early this morning, before roll call, Prisoner Sherlock Holmes had a visit from one of the guards. The guard made sure to stand with his back to the camera, so we can’t pick up what he said. And Holmes was sitting on his bed in the corner so he’s barely visible. But, the guard tossed him something through the bars.” 

“Before you ask, we don’t know which guard. He was very careful to keep his profile in shadow and his face hidden. It isn’t possible to pick out any distinguishing features at all. And of course there’s no audio from the cameras,” Anthea continued, picking up the thread from Sally. She sounded her usual professional self, but there was a certain clipped edge to her words. “We’ve tried getting a list of all the guards on duty during that time. So far all but one are accounted for and were nowhere near Sherlock Holmes’ cell.”

“And the one guard we can’t account for has gone… mysteriously missing.” Sally concluded, before Greg or Mycroft could ask. She was good at anticipating questions. “After he was caught on security footage by the cells there’s no sign of him anywhere else in the prison. He seems to have vanished. And following that, I doubt you’ll find it surprising that his cell number and address on file are fake.”

“Not surprising at all, no.” Mycroft answered, tilting his head to one side consideringly. “You will follow up on that, of course.”

“Yes, sir,” Sally agreed over the sound of a loud buzzing then a door clanging open. There were footsteps as the three of them walked through before another clanging as the door closed.

“What did you see this mysterious missing guard doing on the footage? You said he seemed to toss something through the bars to Sherlock Holmes?” Greg questioned as soon as the footsteps started again.

“It looked like an apple sir,” Sally answered. “Lucky enough there was just enough light to catch a glimpse of the apple in one shot before it disappeared into the cell. We managed to enlarge the image and, well it’s a bit strange boss.”

Because they’d never dealt with strange before, Greg sighed silently. “Strange, how exactly?”

“Well,” Anthea said with just a touch of unusual hesitation in her voice. “It’s a little blurry after we enlarged it. But, it _looks_ like the letters “I” “O” “U” were carved into one side of the apple.”

“What? ‘IOU’?” Greg spluttered in confusion, shifting to balance just on the edge of his chair. “Like-”

“‘I owe you,’” Mycroft finished in a steady voice, concentrating solely on the screen of his own phone. As he began pressing the keys, Mycroft added, “There is only one person I can think of who would send such a message. Especially in such an… underhanded method.”

“Moriarty?” Greg asked, hearing the question echoed from the phone’s speaker. “He’s in prison. So is the entire rest of his organization.”

Mycroft looked up long enough to cast him an amused, pitying look. “And, yet…”

“The guard seemed to give him something else,” Sally said. “On the footage it looks like a cassette case. But we’re just walking up to the cell now, to check. The Warden says Prisoner Holmes listens to a lot of classical music, after he… borrowed a tape player and cassettes from the library. But this is the first that didn’t come from the prison library.”

“A cassette? Why would the guard give him a cassette case?” Greg asked, glancing over to Mycroft who looked like he was still absorbed in his phone. “Seems a bit outdated.”

“We’re at the cell now, sir,” Anthea responded in place of an answer. They could hear the sound of keys clinking together and an unfamiliar voice before finally, the lock turning. “Just a minute, Sally’s gone to pick it up from on the bed. It looks like he was listening to it right before he escaped.

“Boss, I know what happened to the apple,” Sally’s voice picked up on phone speakers, distant but clear. “It looks like he tossed it against the wall of his cell. It’s been smashed to a pulp on the floor.”

“Destroying evidence,” Greg commented dryly. “At least we have your picture of what it looked like before becoming applesauce. What about the tape, any luck?”

There was a long pause before Sally answered, and in the meantime there was noises from Anthea while she searched the small space of the cell. The Warden, who Anthea had likely been scolding earlier, was standing by trying to ask them questions that all went unanswered. Obviously both Anthea and Sally had decided he wasn’t worth their time.

“Sir, boss, you’ll… you’ll want to hear this,” Sally said, her usually strong voice quavering slightly which felt wrong. Her shoes scuffed against the floor of the cell, and Anthea’s voice quietly asked if she was all right.

“Go ahead, Sally,” Greg instructed, “Play it.”

There was a loud thunk as a button on the tape player was pressed down followed by a quiet whir of the tape starting. When it did start playing, instead of classical music a voice began speaking in the middle of a sentence.

A very familiar voice with a very distinct light Irish lilt.

“-you’re so clever, Sherlock dear, don’t you? But what you really are is a traitor. You sold me out, the only person who’s ever really cared about you. I was the one who gave you purpose, Sherlock. Gave you all those puzzles to figure out, games to play. I couldn’t have gotten away with so much without your help. But what did you do, the moment you had a chance? You escaped and scurried off to the police to sing like a canary and give all my secrets away.

“But you’ve had your fun now, Sherlock. Your taste of freedom. You think you’re safe locked away behind bars, where no one can get you. But we both know how easy it is to get into places where you shouldn’t be, if you try hard enough. Don’t we?

“Oh, and Sherlock dear, don’t forget to eat your apple. Doctor’s orders.”

The loud thunk of the tape player stopping startled Greg out of the trance he’d fallen into. He collapsed forward and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, taking deep breaths. “How in the hell did Moriarty get that recording to the guard and into the prison?”

“Anthea, get on the phone with the Warden at the prison where Moriarty and his men are being held. Make sure you have at least two people independently confirm that Moriarty is still behind bars and has had no recent visitors.” Mycroft instructed firmly, taking charge as was his wont. He was in charge of this White Collar division after all. “He may not be as cut off from his devotees as we were led to believe.”

“Yes, sir.” Anthea agreed easily. There was the click of the tape player being opened; Greg could only guess that, like the excellent agent she was, Anthea was taking the tape for evidence.

“After all those awful threats and mocking comments, he said something strange. Just before the tape ended.” Sally said thoughtfully. “Something about doctor's orders?”

“Sherlock has always refused to see a doctor, no matter how ill he is,” Mycroft said, tucking his phone away in his pocket and leaning forward to pick out one of the case files. “That was not a throwaway comment or an idle choice of words. It was a message.”

“Is that why he escaped? Because of a message about a doctor?” Sally questioned sounding like she didn’t quite believe it yet. Or doubted Sherlock’s reasoning.

Mycroft opened the file now in front of him and started leafing through the papers inside. He quickly read one page before turning it over and placing it face down. “I recall there being a mention of a doctor somewhere in these,” Mycroft told them as he went through the file.  “Possibly in Sherlock’s testimony. Or his statement he made before being sent away. It was in something he left behind.”

“A doctor?” Greg asked as he took another of the files and started paging through it. “I don’t remember there being a doctor in the organization. On Moriarty’s payroll maybe, but not an active participant.”

“So, someone Holmes knew? From all he was doing for Moriarty?” Anthea asked over the sound of Mycroft and Greg turning papers in their respective files.

“It was obviously someone Moriarty knew about, seeing as he worked out how to smuggle in a tape to Holmes just to threaten them.” Sally added. “And someone Holmes cared about, since Moriarty knew to threaten them.”

Mycroft set aside the file he’d been looking through and picked out another one. “That is curious. Sherlock does not find it easy to care for others. He’d rather ostracize everyone around him.”

Greg cast a curious side glance at Mycroft. He’d started paging through the new file, but slower this time like he was actually reading the contents. And he’d used the present tense to talk about his brother, when they’d supposedly not spoken in years. “But someone got close enough to him that a threat to this doctor would make Sherlock escape from jail and go looking for them.”

“Just what kind of person is this doctor?” Anthea was the one to ask the question they were probably all wondering. “Who are they?”

Of course no one had an answer. So Mycroft and Greg continued paging through their respective files. Page after page of typical dry case notes. While Sally and Anthea continued snooping around Sherlock Holmes’ cell in the prison.

Greg had taken another file and was only a few pages in when he came across something that might be exactly what they were looking for.

“Here, this is from Sherlock’s signed statement with us. You’re probably familiar with it, but,” Greg rapidly flipped through the multiple pages of the statement (apparently once Sherlock started talking it was hard to shut him up), to the last page. “I remember there was something added at the end of it.”

“And what would that be, Lestrade,” Mycroft asked curiously, abandoning his file. The legs of their chairs knocked together as Mycroft pushed his chair over and leaned over the file.

Greg reached out and tapped a finger next to a short paragraph at the very bottom of the page, below the scrawling curls of what must count as Sherlock’s signature. It was almost like an addendum, added as an afterthought. “Here, it’s the one part of his statement that didn’t have to do with Moriarty or his organization. And it was his only request.”

Greg leaned back in his chair and rubbed at his temple, giving Mycroft room. He waited several seconds for Mycroft to read the short but informative paragraph.

“‘Doctor John Watson’? Do you know this person?” Mycroft asked, a frown etching its way onto his face as he read the name. The name of a person Mycroft didn’t seem to know but who was obviously important to his brother.

“No, but reading that I remember Sherlock was very insistent we keep a close eye on them until Moriarty and his crew was sent away,” Greg said, dredging up the memories from years ago. Bringing Sherlock in and sending away Moriarty and his organization had been a whirlwind of arrests, court testimony, and hours of manwork.

“I remember sitting in that van for hours day after day keeping an eye on a building in not a very nice part of the city,” Sally joined in crossly, interrupted by bursts of static. “But I don’t remember the name of whomever we were watching.” 

“Given Sherlock’s insistence on the FBI protecting this Doctor Watson, I’m sure we can be certain he is the doctor Moriarty threatened,” Mycroft announced as he picked up the paper and held it closer.

“What are the chances the address we have for this Doctor Watson is current?” Greg pondered out loud. After a glance over at Mycroft he reached out and pulled the keyboard across the table in front of him.

It was quick work to wake up the computer and screen, then to log in to the system. While the name Sherlock Holmes and Moriarty were classified, the name Doctor Watson was not. Or not as classified given Greg’s access. As the system pulled up the results of any listings with the name, Greg idly wondered what he could get into with Mycroft’s credentials.

But that wouldn’t be right, and Greg was pulled back to the present when the computer beeped at him. Luckily, the last known address for the doctor was listed just below his name and the details of his role in the Sherlock Holmes and the Moriarty case.

“Anthea, Sally, I have an address. I’ll text it to you and I want you two to meet me there.” Greg called towards his phone as he quickly jotted the address down in his notebook. “Oh, and you’d better call the Marshalls to come along too. They’ll want to feel like they’re part of this.”

“We’re on our way back to the car,” Anthea replied quickly followed by the clang of a metal door being closed. “We’ll call you once we’re in route.”

Greg waited until the phone beeped to indicate the call had ended before reaching out to pick it up. Quickly getting to his feet Greg dropped his phone in his pocket and reached back to grab his jacket off the chair and pull it on. Hopefully once he managed to program the address into the GPS system his car would be able to take him exactly where he needed to go. And hopefully it wasn’t too far away. Sherlock did have a good deal of a head start on them all.

“Gregory,” Mycroft finally spoke just as Greg was turning away towards the door. Despite the hurry he stopped and shifted around to look at Mycroft, curious.

Mycroft treated him to a firm but almost hopeful look, accompanied with a head tilt. “Do be careful. My brother will not be armed, he doesn’t like weapons. But if he was willing to chance escaping from prison for this Doctor Watson, he may not be acting completely logically. So please, tread carefully.”

“Will do,” Greg promised with a quick nod. He was almost eager to talk to Sherlock again now, to find out the truth behind the image Mycroft had built up of his brother and the boy who’d managed to take down Moriarty’s entire organization with his testimony.

When Greg had brought Sherlock in the first time he hadn’t had much time to actually talk to the boy; his testimony and getting everything he knew about Moriarty down on paper was all that was considered important. It was mostly another team who had dealt with Sherlock day to day.

Who knew if the real Sherlock Holmes lived up to all the stories from Mycroft and his involvement with Moriarty. Greg couldn’t wait to find out.

“I’ll track him down, and send him back. I promise,” Greg offered, restraining himself from patting the other man’s shoulder in support.

Then he quickly turned on his heel and went for the door, pulling it open to hurry across the office floor and out to the elevators. In all it only took a few minutes before he was in his car speeding out of the parking garage and onto the street.

 

* * *

 

Luckily the GPS system in his car actually knew where he was going, once he managed to program it. The address, if it was still the same, wasn’t that far away from the FBI offices. Well, relatively speaking, given New York was a wide expanse of city blocks and buildings. And neighborhoods that all budged up against one another.

Greg knew he would get there well before the Marshall’s, even if Anthea and Sally called them right away. But that just gave him more time to talk to Sherlock. He’d also sent Sally and Anthea the address while he was waiting for the elevator, so they were on their way. But of course it would take awhile; that was the problem with spreading out around the city.

And Greg had a feeling that the boy wouldn’t actually be that hard to find. All though he still appreciated the backup and support. Hopefully Sherlock would still be at this address and hadn’t run off somewhere else to do something foolish. Mycroft had mentioned that his brother was not thinking completely logically, especially given he’d just escaped from prison. But running around the city on his own, recklessly… Honestly.

Strangely enough the traffic lights seemed to be in his favor, and Greg managed to get to the address much faster than he’d expected. But that was fine. It helped drastically cut down on Sherlock’s head start.

The building his GPS had directed him to was on what looked like an ordinary street in this less well taken care of part of the city. There was no one out walking and not many cars even though it was midday. It left him plenty of space to park right in front of the building then leap out. And meant there were no bystanders to potentially get in the way.

From his brief glance the building looked the same as all the others on the street. Nothing special about it. They were all converted walk up townhomes with brick exteriors and two windows for all three storeys, a front door with bars, and vines crawling all over the sides between the bricks.

Interestingly the address Greg had wasn’t for one of the residences on the first or second floor. It was for the basement residence, found by passing through an open iron gate then walking down crumbling concrete steps and across paving stones mostly covered by overgrown grass to a barred wooden door tucked under the front steps to the upper floors.

The wooden door had seen better days, the paint on it flaking away from the weather, and the bars badly rusted where they joined the door. Embedded in the brick next to the door was a small window, probably a meager attempt to let light in. It had bars as well, but behind those the glass had been smashed with only a few fragments left clinging to the frame.

So, probably not still here then. Unless the good doctor liked living in a place with a broken window leaving the inside exposed to the elements and a front door that didn’t look like it could withstand a determined intruder. Not exactly an inviting place for patients.

Greg pushed his jacket back from the holster on his right hip, for easier access, then reached out to push open the door. He half-expected it not to be open but even with a light push the door gave way and slowly creaked open.

No one was standing on the other side or came barreling out at him, so either Sherlock was somewhere further inside or already gone. It seemed strange that the door was open. Greg cast a curious glance down at the lock on the door to find distinct scratch marks around it. So apparently Sherlock had picked the lock. Wonderful.

Still, moving on. Greg stepped through the door and inside the front room, glancing around. There weren’t any furnishings left inside, it was completely empty with only a layer of dust covering the floor. The plaster on one of the walls was even starting to crumble.

If this was where the doctor had lived he hadn’t been here in a long time. Greg wondered if Sherlock had come to the same conclusion.

Back when this was a doctor’s practice this room must have been the reception area, although it was hard to tell without furniture. And Sherlock was still nowhere to be found, or at least not in sight.

Off to the left was a dimly lit hallway that probably led to the other rooms further inside. Greg turned and headed that way, shoes stirring up dust on the floor. 

It was hard to see anything, even with the little light from the window. There were two doors on either side of the hallway not marked but Greg didn’t think Sherlock was inside one of them. They were probably storerooms or something.

More than halfway down the hallway Greg paused mid-step, hearing noises from the open room at the end.

While weighing the chances of it being Sherlock versus another intruder who just happened to break in at a really bad time, Greg heard another sound- like something being torn or ripped.

Decision time over then. Greg took another step forward and called out clearly, “This is Special Agent Lestrade of the FBI. I need you to stop what you're doing and turn around towards me with your hands up.”

After a pause a familiar voice called back, “Lestrade? Of course you’re the one they sent after me.”

That was definitely Sherlock's voice, Greg would recognize it anywhere. That confident, smarter than you, privileged voice was hard to forget. And, even if the brothers hadn't seen each other in years, at that moment they sounded a lot alike.

Now he thought about it, though, Sherlock didn’t sound quite as confident or snarky as Greg remembered.

“Yes, it's me. You're not armed are you?” Greg called, but he let his hand fall back to his side. Sherlock wasn’t going to harm him.

“Of course not,” Sherlock’s voice replied crossly as Greg resumed walking forward. “And even if I was, are you sure I’d tell you?”

Greg paused again when he was just at the end of the hallway, and looked into the room ahead of him.

This room was just as empty of furnishings as the front room, even though it was larger. There was a window with broken glass on the back wall of the room, and to his left cabinets of rotted wood and layered dust lined another wall.

When Greg finally looked to his right he was greeted with the welcome sight of Sherlock Holmes.

He was standing just a few feet away in the middle of the room with his hands up like Greg had instructed. Yet Sherlock hadn’t managed to turn around to face him. Still he obviously wasn’t armed.

Sherlock was, however, conspicuously wearing part of a guard's uniform and jacket.

“That’s how you escaped from the maximum-security prison? Well, I suppose the classics are good for a reason.” Greg said not quite laughing.

“It isn’t as if I had much time to plan, Special Agent,” Sherlock drawled sarcastically, still not turning around. “This was the quickest method of escaping the prison without being caught. No one ever gives a second look to the guards, they’re invisible.”

“Letting you walk right out the front doors, I suppose.” Greg said on a sigh. “We really need to train them better. I mean, if they let you escape that easily.”

Sherlock scoffed quietly, tilting his head slightly to one side. “It wasn’t that easy. Can I put my arms down now?”

“If you finally turn around like I told you to,” Greg responded, matching the same exact tone as Sherlock just to annoy the boy. He wondered if Sherlock was usually so awful at following directions.

With a very noisy, put upon sigh, Sherlock slowly let his arms fall back to his sides. Then slowly, step by step, he finally turned around to face Greg.

The first reaction Greg had was how tired Sherlock looked. Of course he had been confined to a maximum-security prison for almost four years. A prison that made a point of providing only the necessities. But this was even worse than that. He was thin, skinny even; the guards jacket nearly dwarfed him. There were dark shadowed circles under his eyes, and… that spark that had been obvious even across a courtroom wasn’t quite there.

“It’s been a long time hasn’t it?” Greg asked quietly, testing the waters. Sherlock wasn’t quite glowering at him, but it was definitely an unhappy look.

“Three years, four months, two weeks, five days, and three hours,” said Sherlock crossly, as if he couldn’t believe Greg needed the reminder. Or that Greg didn’t know exactly how long it had been. “I can also tell you how many minutes but it might not be completely correct.”

“That’s, that’s all right.” Greg managed to respond. Most people would only remember down to the number of days. So of course Sherlock knew almost down to the minute. Either he had had a lot of time to think in that cell, or his mind really was that extraordinary. “I’m impressed.”

“There wasn’t much to do in that cell other than think,” Sherlock said softly, his gaze skittering away from Greg. His mouth turned sharply downwards. “There’s nothing I despise more than being bored. I counted every single minute of every single day.”

“But you escaped with, what, five months and something left before you’d be free.” Greg pointed out, a little confused. “You’d never have to go back to prison if you’d just stayed until the end of your sentence.”

A shadow flickered across Sherlock’s face then, and all of his confidence seemed to melt away. He dropped his head forward a little, shoulders hunching, and looked even smaller in the guards jacket. A scarecrow of a boy wearing his father’s jacket. “There were extenuating circumstances,” Sherlock muttered, plainly trying to sound strong.

“This Doctor Watson of yours,” Greg said gently, letting Sherlock know that he knew the reason. Not that he understood exactly why.

Sherlock flinched faintly, his head jerking up to stare wide-eyed at Greg. “He’s not mine,” was the almost reflexive response. Then he took a breath and added, “But yes, I…. had to be sure Mor- the threat was false.”

Greg blinked. Then he slowly turned to look around the very plainly deserted for years ex-doctor’s office. “You’re sure.”

Sherlock scoffed lightly, some of that spark coming back as he straightened to stand taller and gave Greg a don’t be an idiot look. (It was much less restrained than the one Greg got from Mycroft every once in a blue moon when the man lost some of his control). “No one’s been here for at least three years. It was a quick move out, but not overnight. So he was in a hurry but it wasn’t an emergency life-or-death situation. He also took absolutely everything with, there isn’t even a nail or pen left behind. He’s always been… thorough. But this is excessive, even for him. He made very sure there was nothing left behind, nothing that could be used to follow him.” Sherlock quickly glanced around the room, his mouth twitching upward. “He even took the furniture.”

“I would call that thorough.” Greg agreed, fighting back a laugh himself. Or overly thorough. Although if Moriarty _was_ involved, maybe it wasn’t.

His gaze drifted past Sherlock to take a closer look at the painting hanging on the wall behind the boy. Greg had noticed it before; but after it took a second to recognize it Greg did a double take.

“And that painting?” He asked, moving forward across the room to get closer. “Did your Doctor Watson leave it behind for you?”

“No, that is supposedly a ‘gift’ from Moriarty,” Sherlock answered, his voice almost audibly dripping with disdain. “He left it here for me. As a point. Or a threat.” He shrugged lightly, not turning to keep Greg in sight. “It depends really.”

Greg came to a stop just in front of where the painting hung on the wall. It had been slashed in long tears horizontally across the length of the canvas, but even torn Greg didn’t have a hard time recognizing it. “The Reichenbach Falls, right? By one of those famous painters I can never remember the names of.”

“Turner.” Sherlock said quietly. “But yes.”

Greg half-turned back towards Sherlock, gesturing in the general direction of the painting. “And the slashes? What happened there?”

Sherlock’s mouth twisted into a thin line. “I may have… overreacted when I first saw it.”

“You did this?” Greg asked, surprised. He reached out and ran a finger carefully along one of the slashes closest to him. “That’s a little dramatic. What did you even use?”

“A nail I found on the floor,” Sherlock explained quietly. Greg heard his shoes scuff lightly on the floor as the boy followed him to the painting. “I can't believe he chose _that painting_ to leave for me. I never even liked it.”

“Then why leave it behind?” Greg asked tilting his head to study the painting. First an apple, then a cassette tape, and now a painting? He had always known Moriarty was a bit… off. That was obvious even less than a minute after meeting the man. But a painting?

“It’s a message, or a threat. Or both.” Sherlock said, not really explaining anything at all. “You found the apple he left for me in my cell with “IOU” carved into it. This is the second part of that message. He blames me for his incarceration and the destruction of his organization. And he thinks he owes me revenge for all of that. In this case, a fall.” Sherlock waved a hand at the painting. “Literally.”

“That’s some kind of twisted logic,” Greg commented feeling a little disgusted. “And how exactly is he going to do that when he’s behind bars.” He glanced sideways at the boy. “Just like you’re supposed to be.”

That same shadow passed across Sherlock’s face again. “He would find a way.”

Deciding to change the subject, Greg asked forcing his voice to lightness, “This isn’t the _original_ Turner, right? Please tell me you didn’t just slash a classic, priceless piece of art.”

Sherlock scoffed, shaking his head. “Of course not. This is just a cheap, pitiful replica. He wouldn’t leave something of actual value.”

Greg’s phone chirped at him from his jacket pocket, alerting him to a new message. As he fished it out from the corner of his eye Greg saw Sherlock stiffen again.

Holding the phone up so he could look at the screen Greg read the new message. Then he read it again.

“One of your agents or the Marshalls?” Sherlock asked softly, testing. He had his arms crossed, not looking at Greg or the painting.

“My agents.” Greg answered, unlocking his phone to reply to the message. “Sally texted me that she and Anthea just arrived. They’re in a car outside on the street. Waiting for my signal.”

Greg expected Sherlock to respond with some sarcastic comment. He was quickly realizing that was Sherlock’s usual response to everything. But instead, Sherlock was oddly quiet.

And once the silence went on for a while, Greg looked up from his message conversation with Sally (and constant additions from Anthea) to check if Sherlock was all right.

Greg was surprised to find Sherlock staring back at him, wide-eyed in surprise. “Anthea works for you?”

Caught off-guard Greg answered honestly, ignoring the new alerts from his phone, “She works _with_ me on my team, as a special agent herself. If you want to be specific she works _for_ your brother, since he’s in charge of our division. But Anthea and I work closely together.”

Greg wondered if Sherlock actually knew Anthea, somehow. But he didn’t dare ask because of how Sherlock had already reacted.

“Ah,” Sherlock said quietly, nose wrinkling slightly from whatever he was thinking about.

Sherlock turned his head to look out the window then the other way to the hallway Greg had come from. “Are we surrounded?”

“Between my agents and the marshalls,” Greg said on a laugh, “And considering there’s only one entrance to this place. I’d say yeah, we’re surrounded.”

Sherlock hummed quietly, but didn’t look alarmed or worried that he was essentially surrounded by government agents. His voice was completely calm as he said, “I suppose it doesn’t matter anymore.”

“What about your Doctor Watson? Was it worth escaping from prison with months left, after all?” Greg asked curiously honestly wanting to know. Because while he was glad Doctor Watson was apparently safe and not under threat from Moriarty, Greg really wished Sherlock had just waited until his sentence was finally over.

Sherlock’s gaze flickered towards him, considering. Then he set his jaw and replied quietly, “Hopefully. At least if John isn’t here it means he’s safe somewhere else.”

Greg sent a quick text to Sally and Anthea telling them to move in now. “You know they’ll give you another four years for this."

“Like I said, it doesn’t matter anymore.” Sherlock replied shortly, dismissive. He suddenly sprang into action, walking across the room towards the hallway. “I’ll turn myself in quietly, no theatrics. You will of course get credit for capturing me, yet again.”

As Sherlock passed him Greg reached out a hand and lightly grasped Sherlock’s shoulder. The boy immediately stopped, which had been Greg’s hope. But he also looked almost alarmed at being touched, yet didn’t try to pull away.

“It’s not about the credit, Sherlock.” Greg told the boy as firmly and wholeheartedly as he could. “I didn’t come after you just because the Marshals wanted me to take over finding you. Really it was because I wanted to make sure you were safe for myself. And, because I wanted to know exactly why you decided to escape. To hear it for myself.”

Sherlock laughed bleakly, his shoulders dropping. “Well now you’ve heard.”

There was a sharp bang as the front door hit the wall behind it. Sherlock jumped at the sound, Greg’s hand falling from his shoulder.

“Boss?” Sally called loudly from the front room.

“Clear! We’re in here!” Greg called back.

They heard footsteps moving in the front room then a second pair of footsteps joining them.

As the footsteps came slowly towards them Sherlock turned to look at Greg. He didn’t say anything, not a word. Sherlock just looked closely at him, eyes scanning him from head to toe.

It was almost unnerving, and put all of Greg’s nerves on edge. He had experienced something similar from Mycroft when called into his office about a case he was working. But this was worse.

Finally Sherlock spoke. But it wasn’t what Greg was expecting at all.

“That dust on your shoes, pants and jacket is from plaster isn’t it. But not wall plaster. Something more compact and destructible. From that dust pattern on your clothes it wasn’t something you destroyed but something or someone else. Visiting the crime scene of your current case? Involving smashed plasters apparently. This is the second or third plaster you’ve found in a similar state. But you haven’t found any leads yet, despite them all being obviously linked. What's so special about smashed plasters? Why involve the FBI? Especially the White Collar division.”

Greg was so caught off guard by the flood of words spilling nearly non-stop from the boy’s mouth that for a second he didn’t realize Sherlock had actually stopped talking. The boy finally looked alive again, restless as he waited for Greg’s response. This was probably the most Greg had heard him speak at once, and all with contained energy and passion.

“Er, they were smashed busts. Of Napoleon,” Greg explained, probably not making much sense. He didn’t completely understand what was going on, especially with how it all fit together. But the case had been assigned to him so it was his responsibility to follow through and tie it up.

“It might not exactly be normal; but there is a serial bust smashing criminal out there. And yes, the dust is from the crime scene we were at earlier.” Greg waved a hand at the plaster dust he’d forgotten was apparently still stuck to his clothes.

Sherlock hummed thoughtfully, clasping his hands together under his chin. “Why plaster busts? Why smash them? And why Napoleon?” Before Greg could try and answer, Sherlock went on, “No, Napoleon isn’t important. It’s the rarity, the popularity of them.”

“They’re not that popular. And, seeing as they’re quickly all being smashed to pieces, I bet they’ll be even less popular soon.”

That was Sally’s voice, adding a bit of humor to the situation.

Greg and Sherlock both turned to look where she was leaning against the wall at the end of the hallway. Anthea stood silently next to her, mobile already out and ready in her hand.

Sherlock strangely inhaled when he noticed Anthea, narrowing his eyes slightly at her.

But Sherlock only looked for a few seconds before focusing in on Sally, resuming his rapid-fire speech. “Yes, but see that’s the _point_. They’re not that popular so they're only owned by a very select few. Whoever is smashing the busts knows to only go after those specific  people. They know the type of people who buy and own them.”

“So we’re looking for someone who has a vendetta against people who own Napoleon busts?” Greg asked, trying to follow along.

He wasn’t doing a very good job of it going by Sherlock’s annoyed outburst of “No, no!”

“They’re going after a specific group of people with enough money to buy the busts and who also value their privacy enough to not advertise it or display it in public. Certain people who may be willing to bend their morals just enough to be interested in more ‘unique’ art pieces.” Anthea spoke up quietly over Sherlock’s loud protest.

Greg and Sally looked to her, surprised by the logical explanation; especially when Sherlock said with a small smile, “Yes!”

He took a breath to continue, probably with another almost ridiculous but _just_ possible insight to the case. But then Sherlock actually closed his mouth again and looked directly at Anthea. “It’s good to see you haven’t lost that sharp mind of yours,” he said quietly, sounding honest. “Even if you’re working for the FBI now, and my brother."

“Hey!”

“Wait a minute!”

Sherlock and Anthea didn’t seem to register Greg and Sally’s protests.

Instead Anthea answered, in the same warm but implied insulting tone, “It’s good to see you’ve survived all you’ve gone through; despite the mistakes you’ve made.”

Sherlock’s mouth twisted sharply downward, his gaze flicking to Greg. Then he cleared his throat and continued, “Anthea is right; your criminal is targeting people wealthy enough to own these busts and willing to buy less reputable pieces. And,” speaking almost frantically now Sherlock spun towards Greg, “What is  one of the most valuable but disreputable pieces wealthy people love to have?”

“Original pieces of centuries old art by old masters that haven’t been slashed?” Greg asked a little sarcastically, nodding towards the painting on the wall.

Sherlock tsked, shaking his head. “No.”

Sally jumped in, speaking into the silence. “Jewels, precious stones.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed, drawing out the word. He turned around to point a finger at her. “Jewels. Now, ask _why_ this person is smashing the busts. Why do you smash things?”

“To destroy them?” Anthea answered, phrasing it as a question.

Sherlock nodded and focused in on her. Then, once she didn’t say anything more, Sherlock sighed noisily. “Yes, to destroy things. And, what’s one result of destroying something solid like a plaster bust?”

“It’s smashed into pieces?” Greg asked, trying to make it sound like he wasn’t guessing.

“Yes, Special Agent, you smash it into its separate pieces.” Sherlock said slowly, looking almost pained. “And, if something happens to be _inside_ the plaster busts… Now you can get to it.”

There was a very long, tense silence as Greg, Sally, and Anthea all shared a look. While at the same time Sherlock looked expectant, waiting and impatient.

The three of them remained silent, not looking at him. Sherlock appeared to deflate, instinctively retreating, the excited almost wild look starting to fade from his eyes.

“I, I’m sure you all would have come to the same conclusion. Eventually.” Sherlock offered, sounding much less excited. He moved to tug the guards jacket close around him but then stopped and let his hand drop to his side again. “I might not even be right. I just thought you’d like to know. It’s the most probable.”

“You think there’s something hidden inside one of the busts.” Greg finally said, attempting to clarify Sherlock’s entire tirade in one sentence. “But we haven’t found anything like that in the remains of the busts so far. Which means, if you’re right, it’s still hidden somewhere. In one of the other busts.”

At that moment Greg, Sally, and Anthea’s cell phones all went off with a text message alert. They took out their phones and unlocked them, reading the message.

“The Marshal’s?” Sherlock asked, sounding resigned. He cast a quick glance again towards the hallway that led back towards the front room and door.

“They’re here to arrest you, and take you back to prison to serve out your sentence. Again.” Greg answered as he typed out a response to the Marshal’s. Telling them they were bringing Sherlock out peacefully.

“But they want you in cuffs, and in our custody,” Sally added, pocketing her phone to pull out her cuffs instead.

“It isn’t as if I’m planning to escape, again,” Sherlock said scoffing. But Greg noticed how he was eyeing the cuffs in Sally’s hand.

Anthea took a step closer to Sherlock, holding her hand out. “Still Sherlock, please.”

His answer was an annoyed glare.

“Turn around, Sherlock, let me cuff you.” Greg requested, silently hopeful the boy would listen. He just wanted Sherlock to see the point of following directions and going quietly back to prison. “Don’t make this difficult.”

Sherlock sighed noisily; but he slowly turned around and crossed his arms behind his back.

Relieved, Greg walked forward and as gently as possible closed the cuffs around Sherlock’s thin, almost bony wrists.

“All right, start walking towards the front door,” Greg instructed, resting a hand against Sherlock’s back. He tried not to react to how Sherlock flinched at even that touch.

Greg used his hand to guide the boy as they started walking together across the floor. Once they neared the hallway Sally stepped away from the wall to walk in front of them and Anthea followed behind them.

Together they all went down the hallway and into the front room then stepped through the front door. The street outside was much busier than when Greg had first arrived. There were two other FBI issue cars parked near his. Along with several NYPD cars with their lights flashing. And the Marshal’s cars of course.

As their small group walked out onto the sidewalk two men in Marshal’s jackets and caps half-jogged up to them.

One of the Marshal’s treated Sherlock to a stiff smile. “Good to see you, Mr. Holmes. It’s a shame you left early.”

“Oh _don’t_ ,” Sherlock snapped. “Spare me and just take me to the car already.”

“My pleasure,” the other Marshal said gruffly. Without another word he reached out and grabbed Sherlock roughly by the elbow then practically dragged him over to the nearest Marshal’s car.

“Hold on!” Anthea called and quickly followed after them looking determined.

The other Marshal glanced between Greg and Sally before saying, with more interagency cooperation than most agents had, “Thanks for tracking him down and bringing him in. We’ll make sure he’s not able to escape, again.”

Before Sally could say anything, and without really thinking about it, Greg blurted, “Can I come visit him?”

“‘Visit him’?” Sally echoed, sounding confused.

The Marshal also gave him a confused look, glancing over at Sally. “Not sure why you’d want to. But I’m sure it could be worked out somehow.”

“I’d appreciate that,” Greg reached out a hand and shook the Marshal’s hand. “Let me know.”

“Right,” the Marshal nodded to both of them before turning around and walking off towards the car.

Sally and Greg stood together for a few seconds before Sally uncharacteristically cleared her throat. “Not that I’m questioning you, boss. But why do you want to go _visit_ him? He’ll be back behind bars and now he’ll stay there.”

“It’s not about that,” Greg quickly denied. Because that was really all he knew for sure at the moment. It wasn’t about making sure Sherlock stayed behind bars and safe. Though of course Greg would sleep much, much better at night knowing he was.

But no, it was more about how Sherlock had, in the space of _minutes,_ given them the lead they had been searching for for months. Finally they had somewhere to start. After three smashed busts and no leads.

And Sherlock had figured it out from… what, some plaster dust on his clothes and studying him? It was brilliant. If Greg didn’t know Mycroft, and that they were related, he’d probably think it was impossible.

“Then what boss? Why would you want anything else to do with him?” Sally asked, her brow wrinkling as she crossed her arms.

“Because,” Greg said slowly, a probably ridiculous idea coming forming. “I think there’s something there.”

 

* * *

  _end of pilot- part one (see you next time~!)_

 


	2. There's Something About Sherlock- part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Sherlock locked away four more years Greg returns to the FBI to convince FBI ASAC Mycroft Holmes to help negotiate a different deal for Sherlock. One that will allow Sherlock to work with the FBI as a criminal consultant. The deal is reluctantly agreed to, but with some road bumps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Without further ado, Episode Two!
> 
> Hope you enjoy, as always kudos and comments welcome :)

 After the Marshals drove off with Sherlock secured in the back seat Greg, Sally, and Anthea made their separate ways back to the FBI offices.

 

Of course notice was given that the place needed to be watched, and there was the fake priceless painting that needed to be taken care of. But there was little else the three of them could do since Sherlock’s doctor was long gone.

 

Greg drove quickly to the office, parking in the garage then rushing into the elevator and upwards. There had been a thought, an idea, niggling at him for most of the drive. Ever since Sherlock had left, actually. And no matter how hard he tried to convince himself it was ridiculous, it wouldn’t go away.

 

He couldn’t bring himself to talk about it with Sally, or even Anthea, who apparently knew Sherlock somehow although neither of them had said anything.

 

No, he needed to talk it over with someone who knew Sherlock better than him and who trusted logic more than he did. Someone who could tell him it was ridiculous and Greg would listen.

 

Greg stepped off the elevator and pushed through the double doors to the offices. Some agents were at their desks, and a few of them called out greetings to him. Greg waved in response but quickly walked past the rows of desks and up the three steps to the offices on the raised level.

 

The office on the right was still empty, as it had been for months now. And would stay that way since no one had been promoted to occupy it. But in the office next door on the left, behind his desk as always, sat Mycroft Holmes.

 

The blinds on the windows were half-turned, as if a signal for privacy. But Greg completely ignored that, only pausing for a moment to knock on the door. Then Greg barely waited for Mycroft to respond before pushing open the door.

 

Mycroft had a pen in his hand and multiple files laid out in front of him on the desk. He didn’t even look up from the file he was reading as Greg walked in and stopped in front of the desk.

 

“Well that was exciting,” Greg announced before not quite collapsing into the nearest chair. He had enough energy left to stay upright, but the adrenaline was quickly wearing off. The drive back here was honestly mostly a blur.

 

From the other side of the desk Mycroft made a polite inquiring noise then wrote his signature at the bottom of another form. “Catching and putting a criminal back behind bars? I would imagine so.”

 

“He’s not a criminal,” Greg quickly refuted, the defense escaping before he could stop himself.

 

Now Mycroft finally looked up from his file, only to treat Greg to that irritatingly silent eyebrow raise.

 

Which, of course, made Greg defensive of his defense. “Okay yes, he is a criminal. But he didn’t personally commit any crimes. He just helped plan them. Everything else was Moriarty’s doing. It wasn’t Sherlock’s fault.”

 

Mycroft capped his pen and set it down next to his pile of files. Then he looked over at Greg, remaining completely silent.

 

And now that Greg was on the receiving end of Mycroft’s gaze, the familial resemblance was even more obvious.

 

“Did you tell Sherlock this?” Mycroft finally asked, sitting back in his chair. It was a curious question, but as usual Greg had trouble telling Mycroft’s reasoning behind it.

 

“Er,” Greg stalled, quickly thinking back over everything he and Sherlock had said in that isolated, abandoned room. A lot had been said, and not said; but apparently Greg _hadn’t_ even told Sherlock that he didn’t blame the boy. “No, I didn’t.”

 

“I see,” Mycroft said calmly yet somehow expressing disappointment. “You did still manage to convince Sherlock to return to prison. So thank you for that.”

 

Greg sat back in his chair, tempted to tilt his head back against the hard back. “Not sure you should be thanking me,” he admitted, crossing his arms.

 

“Oh?”

 

That same calm, level tone. Greg couldn’t tell what angle Mycroft was trying at but it was getting irritating. “I understand he did criminal deeds and should be punished for it. But,” Greg let out a long breath before finally putting his idea into words and saying it out loud. “I don’t like the thought of him being in prison, locked behind bars.”

 

Mycroft’s expression did something strange then at Greg’s confession. Greg didn’t catch every reaction; Mycroft was very good at masking emotions, which was probably a positive characteristic for running a division of the FBI. But Greg did see surprise, and gratitude.

 

“He would be released in mere months if he hadn’t been so reckless and escaped early.” Mycroft said quietly with a sigh. “He knew he had to serve out his entire sentence, and afterwards I would find something for him. Yet one underhanded message from Moriarty and he decides to break out in order to run off somewhere with no regard for the consequences.”

 

Greg lifted a shoulder in a shrug; but then he sat up a little in his chair. “He thought his friend was in danger from Moriarty.”

 

“Yes, this Doctor Watson,” Mycroft agreed, his mouth twisting a little at one side. “Yet Sherlock doesn’t have friends.”

 

Greg gave him a look now, a little hurt on Sherlock’s behalf. “Well it sounded like Sherlock and Doctor Watson were close. Although when he realized Watson hadn’t been at that address in years I couldn’t tell if he was relieved or upset Watson was gone.”

 

“Gone to ground it seems. Neither Anthea nor I could find any sign of him since Sherlock’s mention in his testimony,” was Mycroft’s not so reassuring reply. “And now that Sherlock is safely behind bars, hopefully there won’t be any further issues.”

 

“I hope that’s true, but Moriarty’s a bit of a wild card,” Greg said, silently grateful that Watson had gone to ground. It was too bad Sherlock wouldn’t see him again but at least Moriarty wouldn’t find him either.

 

“Moriarty remains safely behind bars, I assure you.” Mycroft promised, leaning forward slightly to clasp his hands on top of the desk. “We’ve had multiple very reliable sources confirm Moriarty remains incarcerated. I’ve asked Anthea to contact others for updates about his remaining associates.”

 

“Good, good,” Greg said nodding. “But,” he added after a slight hesitation. “About Sherlock staying behind bars in prison.”

 

Mycroft sighed deeply, unclasping his hands to sit upright in his chair. “I’m almost certain I don’t want to hear this.”

 

Greg ignored the displeasure coming off Mycroft and slid forward in his chair. “I told you I don’t like the idea of him locked away in there. He shouldn’t have to start his sentence all over again just because he made the wrong choice for a good reason. He should only have to serve out the remainder of his first sentence.”

 

When Mycroft didn’t respond or react at all, Greg continued head-on. “And, although I’m pretty sure you’d never say it out loud, I know you feel the same way.”

 

“And, if I did?” Mycroft asked with another imperious head tilt.

 

Greg jumped on the question, taking it as an opening. “We can find a compromise, a middle ground everyone will agree to.”

 

“And by everyone you would mean the Marshals, the FBI, and Sherlock?” Mycroft clarified without making it sound like a question. Greg could tell Mycroft did not share his optimism. “You’ve been part of the government long enough to know better, Gregory.”

 

“Just listen,” Greg insisted, sitting on the edge of his chair. “I know it’s almost impossible. But still I’m sure everyone could be brought around. Sherlock deserves us trying at least. Let me just look into a few options, I’m sure I can find something.”

 

Mycroft studied him for a long moment again, frowning a little. When he finally exhaled sharply what he said was, “Why are you so determined to help my brother, Gregory? You barely knew him before today. And you have one of the highest closing rates for sending criminals away permanently.”

 

“I already said he’s not a criminal, or not a dangerous one,” Greg reaffirmed keeping the edge just out of his voice. “And I know he’s not the same boy we locked behind bars almost four years ago. Somehow he managed to just look at me and be able to tell me all about the case I’m working. And give us our first real break and lead. If he came to consult with us and use that brain of his to help us solve cases, we’ll become even better.”

 

Mycroft didn’t look very impressed by Greg’s answer. “It’s called deductive reasoning. Piece together clues and observations then apply logic to find the most probable answer or conclusion. It’s not very difficult at all to the trained mind.”

 

“It was brilliant,” Greg countered. “No one else could have done that.” He gave Mycroft a closer look. “Except I’m thinking you taught him so of course you could too.”

 

“Of course, isn’t that what older brothers are for?” Mycroft asked with a thin smile. “And I know Sherlock well enough to know that even if you could convince the FBI and the Marshals, Sherlock would still be the most difficult to convince.”

 

“I want to at least give him the option. You’re happy sitting behind a desk, supervising all day.” Greg responded, waving a hand at the other man. “I can’t imagine Sherlock feeling the same way. He used to help Moriarty plan crimes and ensure they went off perfectly.”

 

“And he went to prison for it.”

 

Greg sighed, shaking his head. “Yes, he did. But we can use his experience to help us think more like the criminals we’re after so we’re steps ahead of them. It really benefits everyone.”

 

“And clearly ignores why Sherlock went to prison and the remainder of his sentence he is supposed to serve out,” Mycroft said pointedly, his voice strangely quiet.

 

Greg couldn’t immediately come up with something to say to that, not right away. He suspected Mycroft was pointing out the flaws in his plan instead of saying a definite no. So all Greg said was, “Just think about it.”

 

Mycroft moved forward in his chair to sit completely upright. “I’ll contact the Marshals, and send an inquiry upwards. I’ll let you know as soon as I have an answer.”

 

Greg blinked a few times, trying to catch up to this change. “So it’s possible?”

 

Mycroft offered a rare yet warm smile. “Perhaps.”

 

* * *

 

 (nearly a month later)

 

Sherlock was yet again in the midst of another neverending cycle of boredom while he was contained in the matchbox masquerading as his prison cell. None of his options for entertainment sounded intriguing at all, and he refused to sink low enough to counting things.

 

If only the idiot wardens in this godforsaken place hadn’t somehow gotten it into their brains that he wasn’t allowed to have a cassette or cd player because it could be _dangerous_. Honestly.

 

Music, or something much more illegal he’d sworn to leave alone forever, were the only options with a relatively high likelihood of helping him forget. Or at least drown out the terror he’d felt while listening to Jim -Moriarty’s- message. Or the mixture of relief and pain after realizing John had vanished into the city leaving absolutely no clue about where he’d gone.

 

Sherlock groaned and rolled over onto his side to face the wall. Drawing his knees even more tightly to his chest, he sent out a silent, brief wish for his dressing gown. He wanted to wrap it tightly around himself as makeshift armor and something familiar.

 

He’d pleaded, begged really, for John to disappear and go into hiding back when it’d been obvious Moriarty and his entire organization was about to be brought down. Especially as the FBI closed in from all sides. While Sherlock was more than willing to suffer the consequences for all he’d done for Jim, he refused to let John be condemned. John didn’t deserve it, especially since he hadn’t had anything to do with Moriarty.

 

Sherlock hadn’t seen John since the trial and the hours of testimony he’d given for the FBI; now John had apparently disappeared completely just when everything was starting anew. And irritatingly Sherlock couldn’t even confirm whether or not John was all right.

 

From somewhere further down the hallway there was the near deafening metal clang of the door banging closed on itself. The other prison residents jeered at the guard as he walked by, heavy boots echoing in the hallway.

 

Sherlock remained curled up on his bed, staring owlishly at the wall in front of him. He’d have to perfect his technique again of blocking out the entire symphony of distractions and noises in this mousetrap chamber of a building.

 

“Hey, Holmes!”

 

The guard came to a stop outside the door of his cell and banged on the bars in a very irritating fashion.

 

Sherlock didn’t move.

 

“Holmes, are you ignoring me? Get up!” The banging resumed, even louder this time.

 

“It’s not time for meals or to venture out into the grassy area you call a yard,” Sherlock replied calmly, refusing to engage.

 

The guard laughed and unhooked the ring of keys from his belt. “You’re right. But lucky for you, you have a visitor.”

 

Sherlock sighed and finally decided to sit up on his bed, staring across the small space of the cell at the guard. “A visitor; you’re joking. I have no one who would want to visit me.”

 

The guard - Baxton? - slid a key into the lock on the cell and turned it. The lock thunked then he reached out and swung open the door. “Apparently you do.”

 

Sherlock gave Baxton his best unimpressed look yet moved to the edge of his bed. At least this was Baxton and not Jenkins, who Sherlock had already managed to piss off with his deductions.

 

“Fine,” Sherlock snapped, sliding off the bed and standing to his feet. “Lead the way.”

 

Baxton stepped into the middle of the open doorframe and reached again to his belt for his handcuffs. “Turn around first, you know how this works.”

 

Sherlock sighed noisily. But he didn’t really need to consider his options. The annoyance and constriction of the handcuffs was outweighed by his curiosity for who would want to visit him. He doubted his brother would, John was underground, and he didn’t have any other friends or even acquaintances.

 

So Baxton put him in handcuffs, locked the cell behind them, and guided Sherlock down a series of hallways and doors to the visitors room.

 

Where Sherlock was equally stunned and shocked to see Special Agent Lestrade sitting at one of the tables, facing him. The Agent even smiled a little and waved when he saw Sherlock.

 

Taken aback, but only for a moment, Sherlock remained silent as Baxton guided him more gently than most of the other guards across the room to where the FBI agent was sitting. Then Sherlock was pushed unceremoniously down onto the bench.

 

Baxton was about to turn and walk away, really the only privacy allowed in this place, when the Agent spoke.

 

“Those really aren't necessary,” He said in that firm authoritative voice that probably had his agents running to do his bidding. Lestrade raised a hand to point at the metal handcuffs still restraining Sherlock's wrists. “He won't attack me.”

 

“Sorry, sir,” Baxton replied with an apologetic shrug. “It's policy. Nothing I can do about it.”

 

Lestrade looked annoyed at this but nodded and waved Baxton away. As soon as Baxton was out of earshot, the Agent finally looked to Sherlock.

 

“You looked surprised to see me again,” was Lestrade’s opening line, as if they'd just met on the street instead of him coming all the way out to a maximum security prison just to see Sherlock.

 

Apparently they were completely bypassing the typical socially accepted greetings, which was both surprising and pleasing. From their few interactions the agent had seemed very accustomed to living and working by the rulebook and societal norms.

 

Which was why Sherlock didn't feel any regret that the first question out of his mouth was, “Did my brother send you?”

 

Agent Lestrade actually looked a little hurt at the question, as if Sherlock was the one not making sense. “No, he didn't,” he said with a rough laugh then rubbed at his temple. “I came on my own.”

 

Sherlock closed his mouth with a snap and grappled for any other highly possible reason the Agent would decide to come and see him. Lestrade looked less exhausted and sleep deprived than the last time Sherlock had seen him, dressed in new work clothes for the day instead of ones worn multiple days. There was no plaster dust stuck to his clothes or his shoes so he hadn't been to a new crime scene for his case; at least not today or whenever he'd last worn these clothes and shoes. The Agent had also come directly from his house to the prison without stopping at work first, if the still pristine state of his clothes and faint smell of coffee hanging on him were any tell.

 

Sherlock hadn't bothered to try and find a way of getting access to the city papers because there was rarely anything of interest in them and he doubted the FBI would willingly leak to the newspaper that there was a criminal smashing plaster busts and breaking and entering.

 

But seeing the Agent now, Sherlock wondered if maybe he should have tried harder.

 

“What did you find?” He asked, keeping his voice even to not betray any curiosity that might rise to the surface.

 

The Agent had a horrible poker face. It was even worse when he leaned back in his chair and asked, with a horrible attempt at innocence, “What do you mean?”

 

Sherlock sighed and shook his head. “You can't fool me, Agent. The only possible reason you would decide to come visit me, other than at my brother's insistence, is if you discovered new information about the case I helped you with. And for some reason you thought I would be interested in what you found.”

 

Lestrade gave up on his short-lived innocent act, uncrossing his arms and leaning forward across the table closer to Sherlock, trying to be friendly. “You aren't?”

 

Sherlock tilted his head to one side, questioning. “Should I be?” He shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly.

 

The FBI agent laughed and scratched at his temple. “What if I told you it turns out you were right? A priceless jewel _was_ stolen just a little before that first plaster bust turned up smashed. So turns out it's not really a coincidence.”

 

“There are no such thing as coincidences.” Sherlock refuted, trying to sound irritated. But he was secretly pleased that he had been proven right. As he expected.

 

“Not this time,” Agent Lestrade agreed with a nod. He opened his mouth again to say something, then infuriatingly closed it again- as if he needed to think about what he was about to say.

 

Sherlock was very near snapping at him to just say whatever it was; he’d likely heard even worse before from other people in his life. But then Agent Lestrade sighed and finally spoke.

 

“Listen, I know we probably would have worked out the connection between the smashed busts and missing jewel hopefully sooner than later,” Sherlock tried not to laugh, although if any FBI agent had a chance it would be Lestrade. “But with your insight we got there much sooner. And now we know there's a jewel missing, we've been able to start searching for where it's gone. And try to figure out how exactly the jewel supposedly got into one of the plaster busts.”

 

Sherlock considered for just a second whether or not to share with Lestrade the other theories he’d come up with already during his time here so far. They ranged from very likely to not at all possible, but that was only because he'd had quite a lot of time to think lately. And Lestrade had apparently been willing enough to act on Sherlock's theory of a missing jewel being the reason for the plasters being smashed.

 

But then a memory came of Jim’s almost violent reaction to when Sherlock had tried to make a change in something he was planning. It had of course been completely based in logic, and Sherlock's calculations of reactions. But Jim had point blank refused to listen, and had nearly attacked Sherlock when he tried to explain. After Jim had demanded if Sherlock was trying to play him or even usurp him, Sherlock had quickly run away to safety. Then soon after Sherlock had tipped off the FBI, who quickly and thoroughly dismantled the organization. So it had been moot anyway.

 

But what if Lestrade's willingness to listen, especially after Sherlock had deduced the main components of the case from just his appearance, had just been a one time fluke? Most people had very negative reactions to Sherlock's deductions. John Watson being the single rare exception. So really it was infinitesimal that Lestrade would be another. Sherlock had obviously only gotten lucky.

 

So instead of sharing any of the theories he’d come up with since his reincarceration, Sherlock remained silent. Instead he said, as haughtily and distant as he could manage, “Well thank you for traveling all the way out here to share your progress with me. I hope you don't feel like your visit was a waste of your time.”

 

With that Sherlock turned away from the table, swinging his legs over the side of the bench and made eye contact with Baxton across the room.

 

From behind him Lestrade reacted, sounding confused, “Wait, what? Sherlock, sit down. That's not the only reason I came to visit.”

 

Sherlock, already on his feet, turned partially back towards the FBI agent. “What then? I've already given you enough insight for your case so you can find the solution and close it easily enough. I'm sure your team will manage just fine on its own.”

 

“That's just it,” Lestrade replied, getting to his feet now. He placed his hands flat on the table and leaned forward. “We’d been struggling along for weeks trying to find a motive or logic tying these crimes together. Then you come along and offer us the lead we needed. You’ve helped us a lot, Sherlock. And, I think you could help us a lot more.”

 

Sherlock tried to indicate just how ridiculous he thought that idea was with an appropriate noise. “What, are you planning to start commuting from your offices in the city to visit me here in my cell? You may find that just a bit of a challenge Agent.”

 

“That wasn't actually what I had in mind.” Lestrade told him with a firm look. With a vague wave at the other side of the table he instructed, “Sit down.”

 

Sherlock did, slowly sinking down to sit on the bench. But he had to ask, “Does that mean we're about to become prison penpals?”

 

Lestrade laughed at that but followed suit and sat down. “No, I meant something a bit more active. More… interactive.” He sighed in exasperation and rubbed a hand over his face. “Sorry, I'm not doing a very good job explaining this.”

 

“Not really, no.”

 

Lestrade shot him a look then lowered his hands and clasped them together. “Since you obviously have a talent for our kind of work, and experience on the other side of the law, we’d like you to come help us with cases. And by us I mean the FBI White Collar division. You'd be working directly with my team as a criminal consultant.”

 

Sherlock stared stupefied at him, trying desperately to get his brain to work and absorb this information. “You want me to come _work_ with you and your team? You seem to be conveniently forgetting the reason I'm currently sitting in this prison.”

 

“That's why I said our criminal consultant. And it's already been sanctioned by the Marshals and all the appropriate higher ups.” Lestrade explained, as if that made all of this feasible. “There's even precedent for it, and case law. So there won't be any loopholes for you to exploit.”

 

Sherlock mulled this over for a while before finally saying, “There must be a catch somewhere. I find it difficult to believe my brother would ever agree to this.”

 

“Actually, your brother was the one who helped me work out and negotiate the deal. It's really thanks to him that we got everyone to agree to our terms,” Lestrade commented smugly, and Sherlock wondered if the man was enjoying continuously shocking him. “He's a very talented negotiator. I can see why they put him in charge of our division.”

 

Sherlock hummed in a non-answer. “You didn't mention the obvious catch to this.”

 

“Well,” Lestrade said slowly, “You’d have to wear a GPS tracking anklet at all times to monitor your movements. And you’d only be allowed to travel within a set radius when on your own. But really that's it.”

 

“Oh is that all,” Sherlock drawled, sitting back in his chair. “I'd have to wear a tracking anklet like some kind of animal.”

 

“Those were the Marshals terms that they refused to move on. They want to know where you are at all times.” Lestrade told him, making Sherlock dislike the Marshals even more. “But we wouldn't be actively tracking you. And, you’d be back in the city and using that brilliant brain of yours to help us solve cases. I'd think you’d prefer that to sitting in here bored for four more years.”

 

Sherlock considered the idea for a long time, as Lestrade appeared to sit patiently and wait.

 

Sherlock did like Lestrade alright, for a FBI agent. And the agents with him at John’s old residence had seemed all right. It would take a miracle for Sherlock to admit it, but he did miss the city. And he was almost desperate for the puzzles and problem solving Moriarty’s cunning plans had offered and Lestrade's cases would hopefully substitute for. Being in this prison for any longer would be hazardous to his health. And while there were obvious catches, those were heavily outweighed by everything this deal did offer.

 

With only one possible exception. “It sounds like a deal I would be idiotic to refuse.” Sherlock began calmly but firm. He wanted Lestrade to understand how serious he was about this. “But I have one term myself. This deal has to be ironclad so no one who has agreed to it can void it. And, there has to absolutely be no way for Moriarty to find or get to me. He already has once; that cannot happen again.”

 

Lestrade offered a very solemn nod, and Sherlock finally felt like he could honestly trust the man. “Your brother and I designed the deal with that in mind. It's unbreakable. And we'll both do everything we can to keep you safe.”

 

“Well in that case,” Sherlock said slowly, feeling his mouth starting to stretch into a smile, “Where do I sign?”

 

* * *

 

 An hour later all the appropriate paperwork was signed by the appropriate people at the prison (and Sherlock), Sherlock subjected himself to having the GPS tracking anklet put on, and Greg convinced them that yes he really did know what he was getting himself into by willingly taking Sherlock Holmes into his custody. Then Greg and Sherlock finally walked out the doors of the prison and into the gated and wired entrance way.

 

Sherlock was surprisingly quiet as he walked beside Greg towards the front entrance and his freedom. He’d also been quiet during all the paperwork signing, but Greg suspected that was more because he didn't want to prolong his time in the prison by risking annoying the guards.

 

Greg glanced over at the younger man and realized how tense and anxious he looked. More like a man walking to his death than his freedom. Sherlock was almost shaking, and he couldn't stand any straighter if there was a metal rod propping him up.

 

As they neared the final gate and the calls echoed overhead to open it Greg considered asking Sherlock if he was alright. But then again it hadn't taken Greg long to realize the boy didn't do _personal_ and would likely just get defensive.

 

So instead, as a loud buzz sounded and the large entrance gate began to open, he reached over and rested a hand lightly on the younger man’s shoulder. “Don't worry; we'll get you settled in first and have a fresh start on the case in the morning.”

 

“Hopefully you don't regret it in the morning,” Sherlock muttered, probably only meant for himself but Greg still heard well enough.

 

Greg wasn't entirely sure what to say in response, if anything, so he just lightly squeezed Sherlock's shoulder. Hopefully in the morning he would be able to show Sherlock that he didn't regret this decision at all.

 

They arrived at Greg's car and settled inside, Sherlock for some reason being careful not to touch anything.

 

Steeling himself Greg turned the key in the ignition and started the car, saying, “Let me show you your new home.”

 

* * *

 

 To say that Sherlock was not impressed with his new lodgings would be an enormous understatement. Really the only positive thing he could possibly think of to say about it was that it wasn't his prison cell.

 

“ _This_ is where I'm supposed to live?” He asked scathingly, staring up at the old, crumbling two-storey building claiming to be a hotel. It was probably swimming in cockroaches and bedbugs and all sorts of disgusting creatures. And he somehow doubted its… clientele… was anywhere near respectable. He was honestly surprised Lestrade would take him to a place like this.

 

Lestrade locked the car with a shrill beep then came around to stand next to him, struggling a little with a pile of files under one arm. “It's not so bad.” He said, obviously faking the cheerfulness. “Better than your last place.”

 

Without giving Sherlock a chance to reply Lestrade walked off ahead to the grime covered front door of the so-called hotel.

 

Sherlock huffed and followed a step after him.

 

The interior of the hotel did not improve Sherlock’s impressions of the place at all. Peeling wallpaper, dirty brown carpet that was probably meant to be another color, and more than half of the lights seemed to be either out or flickering.

 

Sitting behind a desk at the end of a narrow hallway was an overweight man whose effort dressing that day was a white tank top, black track pants, and a navy sweatband around his head. He barely glanced at them as Lestrade and Sherlock came closer, too intent on reading whatever gossip magazine his lower intellect enjoyed.

 

Lestrade stopped at the edge of the desk and leaned against it. “Agent Lestrade, my office called earlier,” he told the hotel owner, pulling his badge from his pocket and placing it on top of the counter.

 

Sherlock made a mental note to try and swipe it sometime in the near future.

 

“Right,” the owner agreed absently, not looking up from his magazine. Not even to look at the badge. Instead he reached under the counter and pulled out a key ring with a single key on it. “Here you go hot shot,” he said, holding it out.

 

Sherlock and Lestrade shared a look before Sherlock sighed and snatched it out of the man’s hand. “Thanks.” He bit out.

 

“Second door down the hall and up the stairs,” the owner said, reaching out to flip the page of his magazine.

 

“Thanks,” Lestrade said when Sherlock refused to, instead staring down at the key in his hand.

 

Lestrade placed a hand on Sherlock's back, and how strange was that, to gently push him away down the hall.

 

When they were far enough and Sherlock couldn't stand it anymore, he turned away from Lestrade so the man's hand slipped from his back. “We need to talk,” he announced, facing the Agent.

 

Just to make his point Sherlock leaned in close. “I cannot stay here. I refuse to stay here.” Sherlock insisted in a harsh whisper. “There must be somewhere, anywhere, better than this.”

 

Lestrade did not look impressed. Or swayed at all. “It's either this, or back to prison with you. Putting you up in this hotel costs the same as what it cost to keep you safe and sound behind bars.” He waved a hand at the hallway around them. “This is what you get, Sherlock. If you find a better place then fine. But I hope you decide this is worth it.”

 

“But-”

 

“I'd rather see you walking out on the streets relatively free than locked up behind bars again.” Lestrade spoke right over him, being more honest than people usually bothered. Especially with someone like him. “And you are free to walk around, as long as it's within your two mile radius. That tracking ankle is set up so you can go anywhere up to two miles from this place.”

 

That wasn't exactly as free as Sherlock had hoped, but in a big city like New York two miles covered a lot of ground. “Fine. But what about clothes? I need more than just this to wear.”

 

With a grim smile Lestrade responded, “Pretty sure I saw a thrift store on the corner. I'm sure you can find something there.”

 

“A thrift store?” Sherlock spluttered in a completely appropriate reaction. “You expect me to buy clothes from a thrift store?”

 

“Welcome to your new life,” Lestrade told him not unkindly. He shifted slightly and held out the stack of files to Sherlock. “Here's your homework. Everything we have on the jewel and the smashed busts so far.”

 

Sherlock took the files from Lestrade and treated them to a dubious look. “This is everything?”

 

“Yes.” Lestrade reached into a pocket of his coat and drew out… his wallet. “Here, a little something to start you off,” he said pulling out several bills and setting them on top of the pile.

 

“Make sure to get something nice for yourself.” Lestrade turned on his heel and started walking back along the hallway towards the front door. “I'll come pick you up at 7 am. Sharp.”

 

And so Sherlock was left alone standing in a dimly lit hallway of a decrepit hotel with peeling wallpaper and a stained carpet, holding a pile of FBI files for a case he was expected to help the FBI solve.

 

His new life was off to such a great start.

 

* * *

 

 The thrift store was everything Sherlock had expected and worse. He didn’t know how Lestrade expected him to find anything here. It was well known that anyone with any fashion sense, or sense at all, did not take their unwanted or second-hand clothes to such a place as a thrift store.

 

The abysmal selection of clothing spoke for itself. It contained nothing Sherlock would ever willingly clothe himself in, even if he was desperate. There was a horrific amount of prints or shirts in bright colors, and pants that were obviously off the rack and had never seen a tailor. Not to mention the selection of jeans and sweatpants.

 

He was just beginning to wonder if any other thrift stores within his limited radius could possibly have a better selection, when the bell over the door rang a solo ringing note.

 

Sherlock turned to look in that direction, having already dismissed the clerk behind the counter and the other customers as boring. He was surprised to see an older lady walk in with an armful of dry cleaner bags, the contents having obviously been cleaned recently. She was also obviously wealthy and not a typical client of a thrift store.

 

Intrigued, and hopeful that her donations were more acceptable to his preferences, Sherlock moved away from the rack of pants he had been halfheartedly browsing. He took a few steps closer to the counter and within eavesdropping distance, while trying not to be too conspicuous.

 

The older woman walked straight to the counter with a surprisingly determined stride for her age. She laid the bags on the counter, on top of the binder and book the part-time clerk part-time college student had been browsing.

 

“I’ve come to donate these,” the woman announced matter-of-factly. Then from the large purse hanging from her arm she pulled out a jewelry box of all things. “And these.”

 

The young part-time clerk looked down at the dry cleaner bags and jewelry box in front of her. “I’ll have to take a look at them,” she said doubtfully, reaching out to unzip the closest bag.

 

“Of course,” the woman said agreeably, smiling across at the younger woman.

 

As the clerk opened one dry cleaner bag after another Sherlock gave up on pretending not to be watching. He walked over and hovered just out of arm's reach at the counter.

 

The contents of the bags were even better than Sherlock had hoped. Fashionable, top of the line suit jackets that looked barely worn; shirts that were actually dress shirts complete with collars and button-cuffs; and trousers actually ironed with smooth, pristine fabric.

 

“I suppose we can take these,” the girl said, pushing the bags carelessly off to one side of the counter. “But it’s not like there’s much demand for fancy clothes with the people who come in here.”

 

“That’s all right,” the older woman answered with a careless wave. “I don’t want them anymore. If you just take them off my hands I would be grateful.”

 

“Fine,” the clerk said. “And that?” She asked, holding out a hand for the jewelry box.

 

“Oh, just a few trinkets.” The woman replied, handing it over without any hesitance at all. Not attached to the contents then; curious.

 

Sherlock took another step closer, leaning over to get a better look. The clerk was just as careless with the jewelry box, juggling it a little as she opened the lid. Inside there were a handful of rings, bracelets, and pendants, all typical for the woman’s age.

 

But there was something off about them.

 

“These look fine,” the clerk said, closing the lid again and setting the box back down on the counter. “I’ll go look for a donation slip.”

 

She walked off behind the counter, slipping past a curtain hanging from a doorframe that probably led to the back room.

 

Once she was gone Sherlock edged up beside the older woman and asked quietly, “Are you aware your jewelry is not genuine? It could fool the untrained eye, but I know better.”

 

The older woman didn’t seem shocked at all by his introduction. She shifted her bag up to her shoulder then slowly turned around to face him. “Do you think I’m the kind of old woman who goes around fooling unsuspecting people with fake jewelry?” The woman asked softly, smiling a little.

 

Sherlock blinked, taken aback by her reaction and question. Instead of responding right away he studied her closer. Not as old as he’d first thought, comfortable in her social status and wealth, confident, and oddly amused by all this. “Er, no?” He asked, stumbling.

 

The woman laughed, eyes warm and crinkling. “That’s right, I’m not.” She reached out a hand and lightly patted his arm. “There’s no need to worry, dear. I know very well they’re not genuine.”

 

Sherlock frowned in confusion, absently noticing he didn’t mind the touch as much as he should. “Is that why you’re so eager to get rid of them? People usually attach more sentiment to gifts from their romantic partners.” He tilted his head slightly, assessing. “Even ex-husbands.”

 

“You are a smart one, aren’t you?” The woman asked, hopefully rhetorically, and still smiling. “They are from my husband, you’re correct. But I’m afraid he’s passed, rather than just being my former spouse.”

 

“Yet you still don’t hold any sentiment for the jewelry, or for the clothing that belonged to him,” Sherlock pointed out, glancing over to the unzipped dry cleaner bags. “You brought it to a place like this instead of somewhere you could actually get money for them.”

 

“Does it look like I am in need of money dear?” The woman said curiously, gesturing to her expensive outfit. When Sherlock silently shook his head she laughed again kindly. “I just want to be rid of them, and this store is close to where I live.”

 

Sherlock looked at her, considering. “What if I took the clothes off your hands? I’d appreciate them more than anyone else who might wander into this place.”

 

The older woman looked back at him, just as intently. For a few moments while she remained silent Sherlock wondered if he’d misstepped somehow. Then she reached out and carefully picked up the dry cleaner bags. “I think you’re right,” she said, holding them out to him in both arms.

 

“T-thank you,” Sherlock mumbled, taking them from her mostly on automatic. Belatedly he remembered the bills Lestrade had given him. “How much do you-?”

 

“Like I said, I just want to be rid of them,” the woman answered, giving the top bag a light pat. “And I’m glad they’re going to someone who will appreciate them.”

 

She gave him a quick glance over. “There is more back at my home, I wasn’t able to pack up everything and bring it in one trip.”

 

“Oh, no, I couldn’t,” Sherlock quickly denied, taking a step back from her. “These are more than enough.” People weren’t usually this kind, were they? They didn’t just give other people things, especially strangers. And definitely not criminals.

 

But, she didn’t know he was a criminal. It wasn’t something most people could just tell. Was he supposed to tell her?

 

“You don’t have to take them, just come see if you find anything else you’d like.” She adjusted the purse on her shoulder and smiled at him. “I promise I’m not planning to kidnap you or anything so nefarious. I’d just enjoy the company.”

 

“I, I would like that,” Sherlock heard himself saying, a warm feeling growing in his chest. Even despite his doubts.

 

“Excellent,” the woman said almost beaming now. “I’m Mrs. Hudson, we should probably know each other's names.”

 

“Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock offered, holding the dry cleaner bags closer to his chest.

 

“Quite a name,” Mrs. Hudson commented turning away from the counter. “My car is just outside.”

 

She started walking away towards the front door, leaving Sherlock behind holding the bags. He hesitated for a few seconds whether or not to follow her, and then decided it might be better to give her the option.

 

“Mrs. Hudson?” He called after her, only raising his voice a little since there were still other people in the store and this wasn’t something he wanted people to overhear.

 

She stopped only a few steps away and turned back towards him. “Yes?”

 

Sherlock took the fact that she sounded more curious than annoyed as a good sign. “There's- there’s something I should tell you.”

 

“And what's that dear?” Mrs Hudson asked, slowly walking back towards him.

 

When she stopped in front of him and he still couldn't manage to find the right words, Mrs. Hudson smiled up at him and asked again warmly, “What do you want to tell me dear?”

 

“You should know, that I-I'm a criminal,” Sherlock blurted out, just telling her since there was really no best way to say it.

 

“Oh,” was all Mrs. Hudson said, looking much less surprised than he thought she should.

 

Instead of quickly hurrying away from him like he expected, after a long pause she asked, “Are you a criminal or were you a criminal?”

 

“I- I was? I was in prison until just, well, this morning.” Sherlock explained, his usually smooth words failing him. So instead he just shared everything. “I'm serving out the rest of my sentence helping the FBI.”

 

“So you're with the FBI then. That sounds like you're doing good things to me.” Mrs. Hudson told him with a small smile. As if him working with the FBI was more important or outweighed the fact that he was a criminal.

 

“Er, I suppose?” Sherlock agreed, wondering if she knew exactly what kind of cases the FBI worked.

 

“You didn't kill anyone did you? Didn't hurt anyone?” She asked curiously, giving him an intent look. As if this was the only question that mattered.

 

“No, no I was more the one who planned everything. Solved problems, logistics, all behind the scenes,” Sherlock explained being very careful not to go into specifics.

 

“Well, I won't hold it against you if you won't,” Mrs. Hudson announced matter of factly. As if that was the end of the discussion. “I’d still like you to come over. See if you find anything you like. And stay at least a little while.”

 

“I would like that, very much,” Sherlock replied quietly, not quite believing his good luck. How had he found someone like Mrs. Hudson at a place like this?

 

“Excellent, follow me then,” Mrs. Hudson instructed with a bright smile. She looped her arm through his and began leading him towards the doors. “I may even have a coat you'll like and I think will fit you perfectly.”

 

* * *

 

 

Somehow just a brief stop at Mrs. Hudson’s to look over the rest of her husband's clothes she'd planned to donate turned into a thorough tour of her very large very grand residence. She hadn't been exaggerating when she said it was close, it was barely a mile away from the thrift shop and overlooked the west river parkway. And reminded him a little of his parents’ house, but warm and lived in and full of knick-knacks from a well-lived, fondly remembered life.

 

The tour turned into a thorough inspection of all her books and a discussion about their origins once Mrs. Hudson showed him the library. Then she showed him the study and he noticed the works of art framed on the wall and the well-loved record sleeves in a prized place. They then fell into a passionate discussion of art and music.

 

When she showed him the small attic apartment with a bedroom, kitchen, bathroom, walk-in closet, and a roof patio with a nearly 360 view of the New York skyline, he finally realized what the tight but warm feeling in his chest was.

 

He wanted this. He was so desperate for this to be his life that his chest burned with it. For four years he'd been locked away in a prison cell with occasional glimpses of the sky and breaths of fresh air. This place was the complete opposite of that. It was an apartment that could belong to him and only him where he could go and sit outside and take in the view whenever he wanted. It was freedom.

 

Some of his thoughts and longing must have leaked into his expression. Because even though he couldn't seem to take another step Mrs. Hudson came up beside him and rested a hand ever so lightly on his shoulder.

 

“You know,” she said, eyes fixed on the view outside the french doors. “It does get lonely rattling around inside this large house all by myself. I wouldn't mind some company.”

 

Sherlock slowly tore his eyes away from the skyline and turned to face her. She had already been so generous to him, how could she be willing to give even more? He didn't deserve any of this. But aloud Sherlock said, “You would really want me as a tenant? I can't offer you very much.”

 

“It isn't about the money, dear,” Mrs. Hudson replied warmly, gently squeezing his shoulder. “It's about the company. And I think you're a wonderful young man to keep around.”

 

“A-alright,” Sherlock agreed. He slowly raised his hand up to cover hers. “I would enjoy having your company as well.”

 

Mrs. Hudson’s eyes were strangely shiny, even as she smiled up at him. “Let’s get you moved in then. And I'll try to find that coat for you.”

 

~~

 

Over a pot of coffee and the most delicious scones Sherlock was sure he'd ever tasted, the two of them worked out the logistics. Mrs. Hudson laid down the rules she expected of him, which were not very strict at all; compared to the rules he'd lived by before. In turn he explained exactly what his deal with the FBI entailed. And very vaguely told her what he'd been involved in criminally that caused him to be put in prison.

 

Mrs. Hudson didn't bat an eye. She offered more coffee and scones then promptly asked if Sherlock would need help moving his things or could he manage on his own.

 

If he had any doubts left those were now quickly put to rest.

 

Sherlock finished his coffee and set the cup down on the table (on a coaster). Then, after pulling on the heavy wool trenchcoat Mrs. Hudson had been kind enough to give him and he already loved, Sherlock told Mrs. Hudson he’d be back in an hour once he'd collected what he'd left behind in the hotel.

 

* * *

 

 Coming out of the hotel, thankfully now saved from having to stay in such a place, Sherlock began to walk down the street back towards Mrs. Hudson’s. He'd left a note with the same man as before at the front desk (he hadn't seemed to have moved at all) for Lestrade with Mrs. Hudson's address and the exact distance he had moved. Just so the FBI agent didn't panic and send the Marshals after him again.

 

Sherlock was nearly a block from the hotel when he noticed he appeared to have a shadow amongst the other pedestrians walking the streets. He didn't alter his pace but he did keep a watchful eye of his surroundings and where his new shadow was.

 

Whoever it was easily kept pace with him but never fully showed their face. So two blocks later Sherlock abruptly turned into an alley between two buildings and waited.

 

Exactly ten seconds later the smaller figure wearing jeans and the hood of his sweatshirt pulled down over his face turned the corner. He noticed Sherlock waiting almost immediately; but instead of turning and running or attacking, the person just came to a stop a few feet away.

 

For a few seconds there was just the noise of the people passing by on the street. But then his would-be shadow gave a familiar laugh and said in an even more familiar voice, “Shoulda known I can't fool you, Mr. Holmes. You always spot me a mile off.”

 

“Wiggins,” Sherlock greeted in surprise, even as the boy raised his head and let the hood fall back. “How did you find me?”

 

Wiggins smiled sharply at him, lazily shrugging a shoulder. “Heard rumors on the street someone saw you walkin’ about ‘round here. Decided to come see for myself. Didn't believe it ‘til I saw you goin’ into that cheap hotel.”

 

“Yes well it wasn't my first choice,” Sherlock replied shortly, casting a quick glance over him. “I see you’ve kept up your nightly street fighting bouts. You should really let that black eye of yours heal before you try again.”

 

“Don't hurt,” Wiggins said dismissively. “Was on my way to see the Doc when I caught wind of you wandering around.”

 

The Doc… his street irregulars nickname for John. When he and John had become close somehow John had taken the street irregulars under his wing as well. And in return they had looked after John with the same commitment they gave Sherlock.

 

Sherlock had hoped that would continue even while he was locked away in prison. So he was extremely glad to hear the mutual relationship had continued. Not that Sherlock had doubted John since the man always took care of those in his circle.

 

“You know where John is,” Sherlock stated, trying to keep his eagerness under control. Even as his heart beat wildly in his chest.

 

“‘Course. We kept an eye on him like you said. And he looked after all us,” Wiggins agreed with a nod. He squinted his eyes a little at Sherlock, suspicious. “You haven't seen him?”

 

“Not yet, no. I’ve been busy,” Sherlock explained, being purposefully vague. He held the files closer to his chest. “But if you're on the way to visit him…”

 

Wiggins flashed him a smile. “Come on then, it's not far.”

 

* * *

 

John Watson, formerly a combat medic and special forces in the US Army in Afghanistan, now part-time general practice doctor at his local clinic, was just starting his second shift of the day.

 

He’d spent the morning and all of the afternoon working at his local clinic prescribing medicine for colds, taking temperatures, and getting yelled at by short-tempered ill patients. And because that wasn’t enough for him John had returned home- or to what he called home these days- at the end of his shift, only to set about getting ready for hours at his own practice he ran out of his home.

 

It was very different from the local clinic, but it was just as fulfilling for him. Maybe even more so. He had one foot in the ordinary, day-to-day world, and the other in the underground, criminal world full of con men, thieves, and street kids with nowhere else to go. That part of his life wasn’t safe, he never knew when the tables might turn, but he was able to look after and patch up people who would never get medical care otherwise.

 

His first patient, hovering outside the door for him, was an overeager, too smart for his own good street kid named Wiggins. Not a kid exactly, but too wise for his age. He came to John with bruised knuckles, or a split lip, or black eye, frequently enough that John worried about what the hell the boy got up to. But Wiggins stubbornly refused to listen no matter how often John scolded him.

 

Wiggins reminded him just a little of another certain brilliant, smartass criminal John used to know well. Before he was captured and taken away.

 

John was busy in the tiny bathroom finishing tidying up the remnants of patching up Wiggins, when there was a series of knocks on his door. Knocks in a very particular order of morse code that only his patients and those in the know were aware of.

 

-.. --- -.-.

 

-.. --- -.-.

 

-.. --- -.-.

 

Someone was here to see ‘the Doc.’

 

“Come in!” John called over his shoulder, his voice echoing slightly in the cramped space of the makeshift office and bathroom. “Have a seat, I’ll be right in.”

 

His visitor didn’t respond to his greeting, but that wasn’t unusual. Most of his clinic visitors were people of few words. John had gotten used to it. He took care of them, treated them, then sent them on their way with his best wishes.

 

John waited as the visitor stepped past the metal detectors hidden in the doorframe and inside the sanctuary of his practice. He listened as the uneven floor creaked under their weight as they followed the well-worn path from the door to the exam chair.

 

They still didn’t speak as John finished washing his hands and dried them off with a towel; but he also didn’t hear his visitor step up onto the chair or hear the paper crinkle as they sat down.

 

John had a sneaking suspicion that whoever his next patient was they were going to be one of his more difficult, needed to be convinced ‘Doc’ knew best, crowd.

 

“So, what seems to be the problem today?” John called into the next room, hanging the towel up on the rack.

 

He reached up into the cabinet to take down the box of latex gloves, and nearly dropped them into the sink when his visitor finally spoke.

 

“Well, I’m sure spending nearly four years in prison didn’t help my health at all. So I’m likely in need of a check-up.”

 

The box of gloves slipped through his suddenly numb fingers to land unceremoniously in the sink. But John barely noticed because he couldn’t be hearing what he thought he was hearing. That voice…

 

Abandoning the box John turned and ducked his head out past the doorframe to glance into the main room.

 

And sure enough, there the bastard was.

 

“Sherlock Holmes, in the flesh it seems.” John greeted, fighting a smile and probably failing horribly at it. “I thought you were locked up behind bars somewhere.”

 

Sherlock, and god it really was him, returned John’s smile with a familiar, tentative one of his own. He rocked back on his heels, and slid his hands into the pockets of the wool trenchcoat he was wearing (and where the hell had he gotten that?). “Rumors of my incarceration have been greatly exaggerated.”

 

John burst out into laughter at such a typical Sherlockian remark. “Liar,” he managed to accuse. “Your ‘incarceration’ was all over the streets; even some of my patients from your irregulars asked after you.”

 

A shadow passed across Sherlock’s even-paler-than-before face at that, and John was glad he hadn’t mentioned that it was also common knowledge Sherlock’s going away was tied with the downfall of the Moriarty organization. So to change the subject John added, to reassure, “Don’t worry, they’re all doing fine. Actually I had Wiggins in here just before you.”

 

The shadow was quickly replaced by relief, and then came that look in Sherlock’s eyes and the wrinkles around them that warned John he was about to be made fun of. “That would be because he’s the one who showed me where you’d moved to.”

 

Of course, John thought. He should have known better than to think Sherlock could have found him without help from his trusted street network. Especially Wiggins. “And having me patch up his injuries from his latest fistfight was an added bonus.”

 

“You’re familiar with the reciprocal relationship I have with my network, John.” Sherlock responded with his usual dry wit. “Even in my absence you were as much a part of it as ever.”

 

“Someone has to look after them,” John said with a modest shrug.

 

Then John treated Sherlock to a closer, more thorough look as the other man stayed in exactly the same place. “There weren’t any rumors about you being released though. What happened, exactly?”

 

“I was let out on a work-release program, of sorts,” Sherlock said in what could possibly be his most vague explanation to date. Then, to John’s confusion, instead of continuing Sherlock reached down and tugged up on his left pant leg.

 

It revealed the top of his shoe, then the white of his sock, and finally…

 

“Is that a _tracking_ _anklet_?”

 

Sherlock’s smile was grim, and he twisted his leg a little to the side as if to better show off his new accessory. “GPS enabled even. The FBI pulls out all the stops for its criminal consultants.”

 

There was so much in those two sentences that John didn't understand and needed explained to him. Because all John could manage right now was to gape at Sherlock. First the man was out of prison earlier than his sentence allowed, then he turned up out of the blue at John’s practice without any word, and finally mentioned ‘FBI’ ‘criminal consultant’ and ‘GPS tracking anklet’ all in one breath.

 

Even though Sherlock obviously knew John was having trouble understanding anything he’d just said, the man still had the nerve to smirk and add as the last straw, “You’re just lucky your new residence is within my radius, otherwise our meeting would have been much more public.”

 

“Your radius…” John repeated blankly.

 

He quickly held up his hand in an attempt to stop Sherlock from sharing anything else. “All right, stop right there. Go back and explain exactly what you just said because I’m pretty sure I didn’t understand _any_ of it.”

 

“What exactly needs explaining, John?” Sherlock asked curiously, releasing his pant leg so it fell back down into place. “The FBI has kindly agreed to allow me to serve out the rest of my sentence in their employ as a criminal consultant. I help the White Collar division of the FBI close cases, and in return I wear a GPS tracking anklet and have a limited radius of movement within the city.”

 

“So, you’re working with the FBI,” John asked just a little incredulously, his gaze darting to the front door to check no one was going to come charging through in the next few seconds. “And somehow that was better than just serving the rest of your sentence in prison? Was prison really that awful?”

 

Sherlock took his other hand out of his pocket to run his fingers through his hair and tug lightly. “We’ve known each other long enough that you know how my mind works, John. Sitting in a cramped prison cell day after day staring at a wall is not at all conducive to my mental health. So yes, working with the FBI using my mind and skills to help them close cases is much more preferable in comparison. The tracking anklet and limited radius is just an unfortunate side-issue.”

 

For a moment John flashed back to a little over four years ago. It had been a nearly impossible fight against the fast downward slide into chaos as the brunt of the FBI came bearing down while the Moriarty organization fell apart around them.

 

He hadn’t directly been a part of it; Sherlock had worked to keep John hidden and distanced from both the FBI and Moriarty's organization. But John had seen the effects on Sherlock of being a wanted man running from the law and from the criminal mastermind whose circle he had been forced into.

 

In the weeks leading up to his arrest Sherlock had looked absolutely horrible; even skinnier and more ragged looking than usual (despite the expensive clothes he always wore), severely sleep deprived with dark circles under his bloodshot eyes, and always looking over his shoulder. Many times John had offered the man the sofa at his place, even forcing him to sleep once or twice. Sherlock had only given in a handful of times, and was always gone in the morning.

 

“Well,” John said with a slight roughness to his voice, blinking away the past. “You look better at least. Good to see the FBI is taking care of you.”

 

Sherlock laughed, buttoning up his trenchcoat to the very top. “That would actually be more Mrs. Hudson than any of the idiots at the FBI.”

 

As if Sherlock knew John was about to ask yet another question because of his annoying but typical lacking explanation, Sherlock held up a hand. “I’ll answer any of your questions later, John. But first,” and now that sly, mischievous smile John was well-acquainted with made an appearance, “would you be interested in doing a little investigating on the side with me?”

 

John frowned disapprovingly at Sherlock, but shifted towards where his jacket was hanging. “Doesn’t the FBI frown on that kind of thing?”

 

Sherlock shifted slightly to hold up the manilla files he'd been carrying under his arm. “Don’t worry, completely FBI sanctioned.”

 

“Oh, well then,” John said on a laugh, now giving in and walking over to grab his jacket. “By all means let’s go off and investigate on our own without any backup from your FBI friends.”

 

Sherlock waited patiently as John shrugged on his jacket. But as they walked together towards the front door he turned to give John a slightly concerned look. “I didn’t think you’d want to be directly involved with the FBI. That’s why I’m here while not exactly on the FBI’s clock.”

“Right, well I appreciate that.” John agreed, pulling out his key ring that fit the locks on this door. “And you’re right, I would rather not be involved with the FBI. But, I also want to be there when you even think about doing anything dangerous.”

 

Sherlock moved around him to lean against the doorframe, mostly out of view from the street, while John opened the door and slid a key into the top lock. “Your concern for me is touching, John.”

 

John side-eyed Sherlock as he tried to find the other key (he never could remember the right order). “More like I know better than to let you run off on your own. And I don’t trust any of the FBI suits to keep a close enough eye on you.” The next key he tried fit, so John slid it in and waved Sherlock ahead of him through the door.

 

Sherlock sent him a knowing smirk as he stepped out onto the sidewalk, eyes darting down to John’s hands. “I see your tremor has gone, what a surprise,” Sherlock said meaningfully, then quickly moved out of John’s reach. Instead he turned to intently study the street.

 

“Yes, thanks for pointing that out.” John said, pretending he’d noticed. Of course his hand tremor not only disappeared when he had to focus on medical procedures but now also around Sherlock.

 

To distract himself John pulled the door closed behind them and checked the locks. Then just to be sure John tried the handle, and it didn’t budge.

 

Assured that his street practice was secure from any troublemakers, even though Sherlock’s network looked after him just like they did Sherlock, John dropped his keys back into his jacket pocket.

 

Then he turned around and stepped up beside Sherlock on the sidewalk.

 

“All right, genius,” John offered, lightly nudging Sherlock’s skinny arm. “Where now?”

 

Just like old times.

 

* * *

(end of episode two)

 

 


	3. A Diamond in the Plaster Busts, Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now working together on a probationary basis, Sherlock, Greg, Sally, Anthea, and John start working on unraveling the mystery of the smashed busts. Why does someone hate Napoleon so? Or are they more interested in the jewel hidden within one of the still missing busts? Who will finally find it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is episode three of my Sherlock Fall TV Fusion (a bit late, sorry!)  
> This is part one, hopefully the next part will be up this Friday! *fingers crossed*
> 
> As always, thanks to the amazing pipmer. And the supportive folks in AD. All remaining mistakes are solely my fault.
> 
> Thanks for reading, hope you enjoy! Kudos and comments always welcome :)

Greg did not sleep well that night.

By all rights he should have slept perfectly; with Sherlock having accepted the deal and no longer behind bars but instead free and about to start working with the FBI to solve cases, Greg should have nothing left to worry about.

But that was just the problem. Greg was awake most of the night worrying about the next day and what would happen with the new addition to his team. Eventually in the very early hours he had to get up from bed, trying not to wake Molly who was sleeping soundly, and go downstairs.

Toby kept him company, lying on the tiled floor of the kitchen happily chewing on a toy as Greg sat at the island and munched on a bowl of sugary cereal Molly pretended not to know he kept at the back of the cupboard. He would have made coffee but their grinder was ridiculously noisy, and if he drank too much coffee too early he ended up with a blinding headache.

So instead he sat there for hours eating cereal and staring blindly at the wall as he ran through every possible outcome of what might  happen when he and Sherlock showed up at the FBI offices that morning to officially start working with his team. Some ended well, some not so well, and others… Pretty disastrously.

He trusted Anthea and Sally; they were seasoned agents. And Anthea and Greg knew Sherlock slightly. But Sherlock was still a wild card.

Greg must not have been as quiet as he thought, or Molly had a sixth sense, because just as the sun started to shine through the windows she walked into the kitchen. Molly patted Toby on the head, who momentarily abandoned his toy and thumped his tail loudly on the floor in greeting.

Then she looked over at Greg, took in the bowl of cereal (and probably slumped posture), and sighed quietly.

“How long have you been up?” Molly asked as she walked over and stopped behind his chair. She gently pulled him upright again, then like the amazing woman she was started giving him a shoulder massage. “I thought this would stop after everything finally settled down.”

“Apparently not.” Greg sighed, dropping the spoon back into the bowl with a loud clatter.

“Do you want me to make coffee? Or make you something that actually has nutritional value?” Molly asked, lightly squeezing his shoulders before stepping away. He turned his head to follow as she walked over to the refrigerator. 

“Coffee would be good,” Greg said as she opened the door and pulled out a carton of orange juice. “But I’m fine with my cereal.”

“No you’re not. You’re at least getting eggs. And coffee.” Molly told him, taking out a carton of milk and setting it next to the orange juice.

Toby, traitor that he was, scrambled to his feet and padded over to Molly. He leaned against her leg and thumped his tail loudly against the floor.

“And maybe you should feed Toby.” Molly added, crossing over to take down the coffee beans from the cupboard next to the stove.

“Right, I’ll get right on that.” Greg said, shooting Toby a ‘I’m-on-to-you’ look. The dog was clearly playing favorites.

With her back to him as she spooned beans into the grinder, Molly called over her shoulder, “So Sherlock starts with your team today, right? Is that what you’re so worried about?”

“Yes? I mean,” Greg scrubbed a hand over his face. “He’s brilliant, and I know we’ll be able to close even more cases. And I’m probably just thinking the worst, but…”

“That’s your job?” Molly finished for him with a soft laugh, pouring things into the pan. “You’re an FBI agent. You’re used to planning for anything.”

“Thank you, since after over a decade with the bureau I hadn’t figured that out already,” Greg teased, pushing the stool back and standing. He picked up his bowl and walked around the island to the sink.

“Then you’re ready,” Molly reassured him with all the confidence he didn’t have at the moment. “There’s nothing else you can do.”

Before he could answer she plugged in the grinder and pressed down the button. Greg dutifully washed his bowl and spoon and set them aside. And while the loud rumble of the grinder was accosting his ears, Greg tried to put into words exactly what he was worrying about.

Molly had never met Sherlock. She only knew secondhand about him from Greg’s rantings and worrying, and stories back from during the trial and recently when he had been desperately working with Mycroft to push the deal through. She hadn’t experienced what it was like being in a room with him and having him talk directly to you.

But Molly was an FBI wife, and had gone through many hardships with the bureau right there along with him.

When the grinder finally stopped and Molly was pouring water into the kettle heating on the burner, Greg leaned back against the island counter and finally spoke.

“He’s just such a wild card. I trust Anthea and Sally; they’re seasoned agents,” he tried to explain. “But, what if this shakes up the team too much? It isn’t just Sherlock’s future at stake, it’s all of ours.”

Molly set the lid on the kettle and turned around to look at him. Then she smiled and walked over to him, stepping over where Toby was sprawled on the floor. “You just have to trust yourself, and trust Sally and Anthea.”

Greg huffed, and opened his mouth to protest. 

But then she reached out and took his hands in hers, squeezing lightly. “There will be an adjustment period, Greg; you can’t ignore that. It might take a while for the team to find its footing again.” She raised their joined hands and moved them to press against Greg’s chest over his heart. “Just be yourself with him. Be patient and use that kind heart of yours.” Molly grinned cheekily. “But don’t let him get away with too much.”

“I won’t,” Greg laughed, leaning in to give her a quick peck. “You’re so smart.”

“It’s a good thing you married me then,” She answered, pulling back as the kettle started whistling.

“Yes it is,” Greg agreed, letting her go when she pulled away to walk back to the stove. On the island his phone started beeping in increasingly louder and annoying tones.

“Well, that’s my cue I guess.” Greg said with a sigh as he hurried over to turn the alarm off.

“I’ll have the coffee ready for you when you come back down,” Molly told him as she carefully poured the hot water into the coffee pot. While Greg turned off his alarm and pocketed the phone Molly added, “I laid out a suit for you on the bed. Don’t forget the tie. And your lucky socks.”

Just out of the hallway Greg turned back to point a finger at her. “You mock the socks, but they really are lucky. Don’t jinx their power.”

As he turned back and started walking Greg was pretty sure he heard her mutter, “Whatever you say dear.”

* * *

In nearly record time Greg rushed down the stairs through the hallway and back into the kitchen. Molly greeted him with a smile and a travel mug of coffee in one hand and his briefcase in the other.

“You are the best,” Greg not quite panted, reaching out and taking them from her. He leaned forward and kissed her cheek.

“I know,” Molly answered smugly.

When he pulled back she gave him a quick check over and reached out to adjust his tie. “Have a good day, and don’t forget what I said. Just give everyone some time.”

“Will do,” Greg promised. Once she finished with his tie and gave him the all-clear Greg turned around and rushed towards the front door.

He had to do a little juggling and balance testing as he slipped into his shoes and picked up his car keys, but eventually he was ready.

“Bye hon!” Greg called, opening the door and propping it open with his arm for him to slip through. Then he was out the door and at his car and on the road driving towards the hotel where he’d left Sherlock

* * *

Only, when he arrived at the hotel and managed to track down the manager (who was locked away in his office watching early morning talk shows), it turned out Sherlock  _ wasn’t _ there.

The only explanation the not-very-helpful-or-concerned manager had was a note Sherlock had apparently left for him. A note that read, in Sherlock’s spidery handwriting, ‘Lestrade, I’ve moved to this address. No need to worry, it’s within my radius. And I took the files with me.”

Below that was an address Greg believed was only a few blocks away, but closer to the west side and the river parkway. He had no idea what kind of place it was, but it seemed Sherlock liked it better than this hotel.

When Greg actually got into his car and drove to the address Sherlock had left him, Greg might have spent a few minutes standing just gaping.

Where Sherlock was apparently staying now was one of the old, expensive mansion-like houses right on the river parkway and overlooking the riverside. It was marble and gothic, with three stories, tons of windows and turrets, and overwhelming.

How the hell had Sherlock found someone who lived in a place like this in the less-than-twenty-four hours since Greg had seen him? Who even lived here?

Greg took a deep breath, crossed the street, pushed through the actual iron gate, and walked up the marble steps to the double-wooden front door. There was just an ordinary knocker, nothing elaborate.

So Greg reached out and hammered three times. Then he rocked back on his heels and waited.

A few minutes later he heard a chain being slid back followed by a lock being turned. Greg waited, hearing his heart pounding in his ears, as a handle turned and one side of the large wooden door creaked open on not-so-silent hinges.

He half-expected to be greeted by a maid or butler, or a beautiful young woman or man in exquisite clothes. But the person who was at the door looked like a younger version of his nan, dressed in very, very nice clothes for the hour.

“Hello,” the woman greeted with a warm smile before he could even try to get a word out. “You must be Agent Lestrade.”

“Um, yes?” Greg confirmed, taken aback. He huffed out a breath, resisting the urge to scrub a hand through his hair. “That’s me. I’m looking for Sherlock?”

“I’m Mrs. Hudson,” the woman introduced herself, stretching out a hand. Greg took it and shook her hand, surprised by the strength of her grip. “I’m the owner of this house.”

“Right,” Greg said slowly, making a mental note to look into her later. Just as a precaution. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Sherlock is upstairs,” Mrs. Hudson offered, pulling her hand back to point upward. “I’ve given him my attic rooms. They aren’t much, but he needed somewhere to stay.”

“I have to ask this, but he did tell you that he’s a criminal?” Greg asked, trying to soften the question as much as possible.

Mrs. Hudson treated him to a look Greg was used to getting from his nan when she thought he’d asked a stupid question. “Yes he did. And before you ask, he told me even before I offered him a place to stay.” She crossed her arms, shifting to effectively block the doorway. “Not that it matters. He seems like a nice boy who obviously regrets the mistakes he made. He said working with you was part of his righting things.”

“Yes, it was part of the deal we made. Sherlock works with us for the rest of his sentence and stays out of prison,” Greg explained. “Today is his first day, so I’ve come to pick him up.”

“You’d better take care of him; there’s a real human being behind that brain and sharp tongue of his,” Mrs. Hudson warned, but she stepped back from the doorway to give him room.

“I know, and I’ll do my best,” Greg promised as he stepped across the threshold and into her house.

The inside was just as fancy and tastefully decorated as he expected, with large open rooms, dark wood, high ceilings, and an actual chandelier. He noticed a wooden staircase leading upward over Mrs. Hudson’s shoulder off to the left.

“You said he’s upstairs?” Greg asked, moving out of the way so she could close the door behind him. Once she locked it again Greg pointed over at the staircase.

“Yes, they’re upstairs,” Mrs. Hudson confirmed as Greg walked over to it. “Go all the way to the top, you’ll see a hallway with a door. You may have to knock a few times.”

Greg had taken a single step up onto the first step of the staircase when her words sunk in. “Wait, ‘they’?” He echoed, turning back.

Mrs. Hudson nodded, walking away further inside the house. “Sherlock and that nice friend of his. They came back in the middle of the night, thinking I wouldn’t hear the noise they made. But they’ve been quiet ever since, so I hope they're alright up there.”

“‘Nice friend of his’?” Greg echoed, still completely confused. “But Sherlock doesn’t have friends, he’s been in prison for four years.”

“The door at the top of the stairs, Agent,” Mrs. Hudson called back to him, nearly out of the room now. “I expect he’s waiting for you.”

“Right, thanks,” Greg said to himself and an empty room.

He began slowly climbing the stairs, continuing on at the first floor then the second floor. After that the staircase narrowed as it climbed up to the third floor.

The last floor, or attic, was just a few shallow short steps before Greg came out into a short hallway. There was just one lone door like Mrs. Hudson had said.

Greg walked towards it, not hearing any noise from behind the door or anywhere nearby. If Sherlock was up here he must be doing something that made no noise at all.

Greg hoped to god the boy wasn’t still sleeping.

He reached the door, double checked it to make sure there wasn't anything that shouldn't be there, then knocked on it twice.

There wasn't any noise from behind the door in reaction to his knock, not even footsteps as Sherlock (hopefully) came to open it for him.

Greg waited patiently for what felt like several minutes longer than it took normal people to answer the door. He was about to knock again when he heard the lock on the other side  disengage just before the door began to slowly open.

And standing there was someone who… was not Sherlock. Definitely not Sherlock.

That was the not good news. The better news was that they weren't anyone Greg recognized as part of Moriarty’s organization or tied to him. Which meant that in the single day Sherlock had been free they hadn't somehow managed to track him down and take him hostage.

The other not good news was that Greg didn't recognize the man now standing before him.

He didn't look like much of a threat, in his plain colored sweater with a patterned shirt collar peeking out above it and faded jeans with work boots. But there was something to the way that he was standing, and effectively blocking the doorway so there was no way for Greg to get past him, that made a voice in his head warn Greg to stay alert.

“Can I help you?” The man asked in a mild, quiet voice, and even his voice sounded unthreatening.

“Yeah, um, yes. I'm here for Sherlock.” Greg explained, not quite ready to flash his badge because he wanted to see how this played out; it wasn't like he was here to question or arrest Sherlock.

“Are you?” The man asked, sounding a little more suspicious now. Greg noticed he  was clenching his jaw slightly. But he stayed standing exactly where he was. “And you are?”

“He is here, isn't he? Mrs. Hudson downstairs said he was up here,” Greg asked in turn, attempting to dodge the question. “She said I could come up.”

The man shifted his posture slightly, planting his feet and straightening so he looked taller. And now Greg suddenly realized what had been nagging him about the man. He was obviously a soldier, and a seasoned one at that. Probably out of the service for a few years now, but all the soldiers Greg knew never really left it behind.

“Mrs. Hudson let you up here? You must be with the FBI then. I thought Sherlock had a deal with you folks,” the man said quietly, but in a new hardened voice that set Greg’s nerves on edge.

“He does, that's why I'm here.” Greg offered keeping his voice light and friendly. “Today he starts working with us.”

The man did not look impressed by Greg's explanation. “So what?” He asked with a scoff. “You came to escort him to your offices?”

Greg gave a well-practiced but still not Mycroft-level eyebrow raise. “Wouldn't you?” He asked.

The man laughed at that, his parade rest stance easing slightly. The side of his mouth twitched slightly in what could be a smile, making him a little less threatening.

Greg took that as a sign of a truce. He went to slide a hand into his jacket pocket where he kept his badge, just to prove he was FBI.

At the same time there was a soft chiming sound, recognizable as a message alert. But Greg knew it wasn’t his so he waited as patiently as possible as the other man drew a cell phone from his pocket and checked it.

Whatever message was on his screen seemed to surprise the man. His eyebrows flew up and he quickly unlocked the phone to respond. The man glanced up at Greg, as if looking him over. 

Then he looked back at his phone and started ever so slowly typing out a response, fingers sluggishly moving over the keys. Finally he finished and sent it out into the world.

“Sorry, you were saying?” The man asked addressing Greg again, reaching to drop his phone back into his pocket.

“I’m here to accompany Sherlock to the Bureau offices,” Greg explained, finally slipping his badge out of his jacket pocket. He held it up for the man to see. “Wouldn’t want him to get lost.”

The man’s mouth pressed into a thin line, that flicker of humor apparently doused. “No, we wouldn’t.”

Greg was about to reply when the same message alert sounded again. He sighed and lowered his hand holding the badge. “I suppose you should get that.”

The man jerked his head in a nod. He briefly looked away from Greg as he pulled his phone out again and swiped a finger across the screen.

Greg was not reassured by the sharp almost disbelieving laugh the other man gave at whatever he was reading on the screen. He shook his head and tucked his phone away again instead of trying to respond.

“Can I see your badge?” was the man’s first question after he looked back at Greg, suddenly looking much less hostile. There may even be a hint of a smile, or what could be a smile.

Greg wondered just what had been in that message. “I was just about to show you,” Greg said, raising his hand and flipping open his badge in a well-practiced move.

The man actually looked interested, leaning in to look closely at his badge. After studying it thoroughly he pulled back again, and now gave Greg a much friendlier look. “So you’re Agent Lestrade. I’ve heard good things about you from Sherlock.”

“Really? All good things?” Greg asked a little surprised as he tucked his badge away again.

The other man laughed. “Maybe just mostly good things.” He pushed on the door at his back, swinging it open invitingly for Greg to pass through. “Sorry, come on in.”

“Thanks,” Greg said, stepping forward past the threshold and into Sherlock’s new home.

The other man nodded at him and moved out of the way so he could close the door behind them. 

Once it was closed he turned his head and called off to his left, not quite looking away from Greg, “Sherlock, we’ve got company! Your FBI suit is here to escort you.”

“Obviously, John,” came Sherlock’s low scolding drawl from closeby. “Since I told you to let him in.”

“Play nice, Sherlock,” the man- John?- responded easily, walking away towards what apparently served as the kitchen. 

The entire room they’d walked into was an open layout with a kitchen counter with appliances and cupboards along the right wall, a table in the middle, and doors leading outside on the other side. Directly off to Greg’s left was a smaller room; all he could see of it was a bookshelf on the same wall as the door, a sofa in the middle, and the view beyond that was blocked by a folding screen, of all things.

It didn’t quite have the grandeur of what Greg had seen downstairs, but it was still  _ very _ nice. More than Greg could afford on his salary.

And Sherlock was not in sight.

“Do you want tea, or coffee, agent?” John’s question jerked Greg’s attention back to what was happening around him.

Greg looked over to the right to see the man standing at the stove. “Uhm, I have coffee down in the car. But thanks,” Greg replied a little distracted, not hiding how he was looking around.

“Not with you,” John replied fussing with the stove and filling a kettle. “And I would recommend having at least one full dose of coffee before trying to hand Sherlock.”

“Honestly John, I doubt you're helping the Agent’s confidence.” Sherlock's voice called back, sounding put-out and obviously eavesdropping. “Aren't you supposed to be on my side?”

“Of course I am,” John confirmed, one hand on the coffee press. He glanced at Greg then and said, with a small smile, “But you're not helping your image any either. With your not being dressed and all.”

“What?” Greg not quite shouted, but his voice did get significantly louder. “Sherlock, I was here exactly on time and we're now already late to the office. Go get dressed!”

There was a very noisey exasperated sound from behind the folding screen before it suddenly folded back on itself to reveal Sherlock posing beside it. As John had mentioned Sherlock was wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt, covered by a robe; and surprisingly barefoot.

“Right,” Greg said, really hoping this wasn’t Sherlock’s idea of work-appropriate attire. “Go and get dressed. You have ten minutes, or until I finish the coffee John has so kindly made.”

Sherlock gave him a long assessing look, not moving at all, before glancing over at John. Greg didn't know what John did, he didn't look away from Sherlock, but whatever it was worked. Sherlock sighed noisily again but began striding across the room towards an open door at the other end.

Seeing as Sherlock was apparently occupied, for now, Greg walked over to the kitchen table and propped himself against the back of a chair. 

He eyed John for a few seconds. There was only one ‘John’ he knew about when it came to Sherlock. Finally Greg asked, “You wouldn’t be John Watson, would you? Doctor John Watson?”

The man didn’t jerk at the sound of his name like most people did. He just stilled and slowly turned around. And looking carefully at Greg said, “Maybe.”

“And Captain.” Sherlock spoke up from just outside the other door. “Also his middle name starts with ‘H,’ but I haven’t managed to get him to tell me it yet.”

“That’s not necessary, Sherlock!” John Watson chastised, calling across to him. 

Sherlock disappeared through the doorway and into the rest of the apartment in silence.

Then John turned his attention back to Greg and said, “All right yes, I am.” He didn’t sound very upset his identity had been revealed. “I’m guessing you know about me from Sherlock?”

Greg couldn’t help it, he laughed. Because that day Sherlock escaped from prison and they managed to track him down to Watson’s old place had been a whirlwind. But he would never forget Sherlock’s face when he thought John Watson was in danger.

“You could say that.” Greg agreed, taking the steaming mug of coffee John was holding out to him.

John smiled and poured a mug for himself before settling into a chair across the table from Greg.

* * *

More than a half hour later but less than an hour later Sherlock and Lestrade were stepping off the elevators and into the offices of the White Collar division of the FBI.

Agent Lestrade pushed through the double doors just as easily as he likely did every time. But Sherlock found himself unable to take that last step.

This was so important, he couldn't mess it up. The case sounded at least interesting and for whatever reason Lestrade thought Sherlock could help with it. But he’d been in prison for almost four years and before that the only experience he had was planning crimes, not solving them. What if it turned out he couldn't help solve it and ended up letting everyone down? And going back to prison?

“Sherlock? You alright?” Lestrade called from where he was holding one of the doors open. “We’ll all meet in the conference room.”

Sherlock took a deep breath, steeling himself. He could do this. He would be fine. All he needed to do was remember the advice John had given him last night and early this morning between making a nightly visit to the last crime scene and working on the case. John was more of an expert in this area, since he was more experienced being around and interacting with normal people.

“Yes, coming,” Sherlock answered, managing to make his voice come out level. 

He took one step then another until he was standing beside Lestrade and then finally walking into the FBI offices.

Sherlock stayed silent as Lestrade led him through a valley of desks, taking in everything going on around them as they walked. The office was a hive of activity, with agents at desks or on phones or huddled together. There were so many people and so much noise. But no one looked up as he and Lestrade passed by.

As they walked up the steps to the raised level where it appeared the conference rooms and several offices were, Sherlock tried turning his head to see into the rooms. On the left was a conference room where Sherlock could see several people sitting already. Probably Lestrade's fellow agents waiting for them. Next to it was a locked and shuttered office.

“If you're looking for your brother he’s off in D.C. meeting with important people.” Lestrade told him, and Sherlock not quite spun around to look where he was standing in front of the door to the conference room.

“I'm not, of course I'm not,” Sherlock quickly denied and hurried across the floor to stand next to Lestrade.

Lestrade gave him a quick look, one hand on the doorknob. “Are you ready for this?”

Sherlock just nodded.

Lestrade offered him a smile, a warm genuine one, and pushed open the door. “Good morning team! How are my favorite agents?”

“Morning boss!”

“So early in the morning and you're already sweet talking us.”

As Lestrade laughed and moved around the table towards the front of the room where the projector and screen was, Sherlock quietly walked into the room behind him. Lestrade and his two agents were exchanging the typical morning greetings so Sherlock tuned them out as he closed the door and hung back to watch.

He knew Anthea already, or had a long time ago, a lifetime ago really. His old life before Jim- Moriarty- the drugs and all the crimes. Of course he knew Anthea through his brother, she had been Mycroft's employee first. But once they met they had quickly become close. He had found her to be one of the few people whose company he actually enjoyed and looked forward to.

Lestrade's other agent, her name started with an S he was almost sure, was an unknown. She had seemed friendly enough at John’s old apartment, although skeptical of his theories. Yet she’d also proved she was smart and used her brain. So maybe this agent could be a good acquaintance. They would hopefully be working together for awhile.

From the front of the room standing in front of the screen Lestrade called his name. Sherlock had a feeling it wasn't the first time. 

“Sherlock, have a seat and we’ll get started on our briefing.” The screen behind Lestrade suddenly turned blue, casting him in an eerie glow. “Anthea, Sally, you remember Sherlock. This is his first day with us, so be nice. At least today.”

“Yes, boss,” Anthea intoned emotionlessly, but Sherlock caught her glancing over at him with an ever so slight smile.

“Way ahead of you, boss,” Sally announced, reaching forward to snatch up the remote sitting on the table next to the keyboard in front of her. “Let the briefing begin!”

Sherlock walked over to the table, quickly calculated, and sat in a chair equidistant from both Sally and Anthea. Lestrade remained standing to the side of the screen, shielding his eyes from the bright light of the projector.

“So we’re investigating the current string of smashing of Napoleon busts.” Sally began narrating as the screen changed to display three separate pictures of debris of plaster pieces. Given the differences between the settings of the three pictures and number markers, Sherlock concluded they were each from a different crime scene. 

“So far there’s been three, each in a different place and different part of the city. One at an auction house where the busts seem to have shipped directly from abroad.” She pressed a button on the remote which made a new set of pictures appear on the screen. These were taken from the inside of a rather grand building, and consisted of a shipping crate, an empty wooden stand with a blurry sign next to it, and a wide shot of a room that may have been the inside of a basement with other similar shipping crates scattered around the room.

Anthea jumped in, sitting upright in her chair. “We found a shipping crate near the pieces of the smashed bust. It was empty, but there was evidence there had been at least two other similar pieces inside at one time. The shipping label on the crate had  mostly been destroyed, so we weren’t able to tell the country of origin. And the director of the auction house refused to let us see the shipping records.”

“Suspicious,” Lestrade commented from where he’d moved back to stand beside the table so he could see the screen and not be blinded. “Any chance they can be convinced to cooperate? Through the friendly power of the FBI?”

“Not likely,” Sally answered sounding skeptical and frowning. “He was very uncooperative. Especially when we tried getting a closer look at the crate.”

“The lab tested some of the debris pieces, and I have the results here.” Anthea said, flipping open a file in front of her and quickly looking through the pages. “It was mostly made of crushed marble and lime, with some tincture colouring, and what the notes say may have been absorbed while it was being dried and fired at a high temperature.”

There was a few moments of silence while the agents absorbed this information. Meanwhile Sherlock focused inward within his mind palace to figure out why that combination of ingredients sounded so familiar. It took him what was probably a few minutes, but he did have to back all the way to his time in university.

“That’s marmorino, more commonly known as Venetian plaster,” Sherlock announced to the room, interrupting whatever the conversation had moved onto in the interim. “It’s unique to marmorino, and is widely used in Italy.” He looked over to meet Lestrade’s gaze, “I’d start your search for where the crate originated there.”

“How do you know that?” Sally asked from off to his left, sounding a combination of surprised and confused.

Sherlock cleared his throat and adjusted his posture in the chair. This was his first, or second if you counted the lead he’d given them when surrounded at John’s old residence, chance to prove he could be useful. “I studied chemistry in university, but also took several art history courses. One of my professors was obsessed with how superior Italian art was. He made us learn all the different types of materials used.”

“And you still remember all of that? Even one specific type of plaster,” Sally questioned, still looking directly at him.

Sherlock couldn’t completely tell if she was skeptical still or impressed now. Either way he wasn’t comfortable explaining the concept of a mind palace. So he just simplified. “I rarely forget something once I learn it.”

“Alright, we’ll start looking at incoming crates shipped from Italy,” Lestrade confirmed, writing quickly in the pocket sized notebook he had in his hand now. “Thanks, Sherlock. That’s good, now we have a more narrowed area to focus on.”

Sherlock heard himself mutter something that might have been, “you’re welcome,” or “no problem.” Everything had gone weirdly muted after Lestrade thanked him.

“Second was at a fine arts and antiques store,” Sally continued, using the remote to change the pictures on the screen again. Now pictures appeared of the inside of a store with very poor lighting, an overuse of dark wood designs, and white rectangular pedestals with objects in glass cases on top of them spread around the floor. Another picture was a close up of one of these pedestals with an empty glass case. A close up of a pile of different sized plaster pieces on the floor was the last picture.

“The owner claimed someone broke in and smashed the bust sometime during the night. Nothing else was taken, according to the owners logs, and our scene techs didn’t find any fingerprints.” Sally narrated as she clicked through a new set of pictures.

“His very messy and terribly maintained logs,” Anthea commented, reaching out to set a different folder in front of her. “He didn’t seem to be very concerned about recording which of his items were sold when. Yet he was very meticulous when it came to recording how much they were sold for.”

“Shouldn’t it be the other way around?” Lestrade questioned, sounding confused. “Everything in his store is supposed to be an antique, or worth a lot of money, or for a certain type of crowd.”

“But how often does he sell one of them?” Sherlock asked as a counterpoint, familiar with the impulsive acts of the wildly desperate. Especially when they felt cornered or near the end. “He may have all priceless and antique objects in his store, but he won’t get any money unless he sells. Otherwise he’s probably losing money.”

“So are we thinking that he got desperate enough for money that he’d smash one of the busts?” Sally asked the room as the whole. “He wouldn’t get any money that way, though. As far as I can tell he didn’t have any insurance on any of his pieces.”

“Do we know where he got the bust from? Or where he usually gets his pieces?” Lestrade asked, leaning closer to the screen where the picture of the wide shot of the store was.

Sally laughed, the sound full of humor. “I’ll give you three guesses, and the first two don’t count.”

Lestrade turned away from the screen to glance around the room at all of them. “I’m almost afraid to say, but… The auction house?”

“Got it in one boss!” Sally announced, looking chagrined. “He purchased it from the auction house for you don’t want to know how much a few days after the first plaster bust was smashed. That he  _ did _ include in his logs.”

“Obviously this auction house is starting to look quite suspicious,” Anthea observed, frowning a little. 

Sally pulled the wireless keyboard to the computer closer towards her. “Still I don’t think he was the one who smashed it. He said he was home alone all night and the bust was smashed sometime during the night. We did manage to confirm he was where he said he was. But there’s also no footage of anyone breaking in or being in the store.”

“Was there security footage of the first smashing at the auction house?” Sherlock asked, curious and leaned forward. “Most of the more commonly used security systems aren’t too difficult to trick or find a way to bypass them, but it takes planning and an expert hand.”

“Do you have a lot of experience bypassing security systems?” Sally questioned, pausing her typing on the keyboard to glance over at him.

Not sure of how he should answer her question, Sherlock replied, “I make it a point to have a wide range of expertise.”

“Uh huh,” Sally replied, resuming her typing.  She turned her attention back to screen. “Well, to answer your question strangely enough there wasn’t any security footage at the auction house. The owner claimed that there should be security cameras even in the storage area where they were keeping the crate. But it wasn’t working when the bust was smashed. And yet, the next morning it was up and running again with no missed time.”

“Very suspicious,” Lestrade confirmed, now sitting on the very edge of the table. 

The screen flickered in front of them and the crime scenes pictures disappeared to be replaced by what looked like paused video footage. There was a date at the top of the screen, and a timestamp at the bottom.

“Here’s the footage we obtained from the auction house, for as much as they decided to cooperate,” Sally explained then pressed a key that made the video start.

There was no sound to the video. It had been recorded in the same room as those in the crime scene photos, but from a higher vantage point. On screen was the same storage area, with crates placed around the edges of the room and tables positioned in the middle. The shipping crate they were looking for was on the left side of the screen, but there was no movement as the timestamp at the bottom continued to run.

Then they seemingly blinked and the timestamp jumped from late in the evening to early morning the next day, according to the date stamp on the video. The crate had been moved slightly and it was no longer closed, the lid was now on the floor.

“And here’s the footage from the fine arts and antiques store,” Sally added before any of them could comment on the video. She typed a little then with a flourish pressed the enter key again.

A new video screen appeared on the screen, with a different date  and time stamp. The paused footage showed the inside of the store from the crime scene photos but from a different position, probably from above the counter. The floor of the store with its pedestals and precious goods enclosed within glass cases was in full view of the camera, but there was a mostly obscured view of the front doors on the right side of the screen.

“Well, that might why we’re having a hard time figuring out who exactly broke in to smash the bust in the middle of the night,” Lestrade commented, shaking his head. “Are there any other views from within the store?”

“Nope,” Sally said, and started the footage running. “The store owner only invested in one security camera for his store of priceless goods.”

On the screen the video of the store didn’t seem to change at all, except the timestamp betrayed that time was in fact passing. Finally a heavyset, balding man wandered into view and took his time walking around the floor to peer in at every single case. After a long period of this he finally wandered away towards the counter, and a few minutes later the lights in the store went out casting the camera view into darkness.

Then, they seemed to blink again and the time and date stamp jumped to early the next day. Now one of the pedestals had been knocked over, the glass case in pieces, and a pile of smashed plaster bust was visible on the floor. But none of the other pieces in the store had been disturbed at all.

“So the intruder definitely knew what they were looking for. And that time skip can’t be a coincidence,” Anthea said quietly, putting what they were all thinking to words. “Is there a way to tell if the footage has been tampered with for sure?”

“That doesn't give you enough evidence? The timestamp just jumped hours in the space of a second.” Sherlock heard himself blurt out, waving a hand at the screen.

“We don't know, maybe it just wasn't working. Or there wasn't anyone in the store.” Lestrade said, then sighed at the incredulous look he was getting. “Alright fine. It's probably not a coincidence. Let's get it looked at.”

“I don't think the store owner kept up to date with his security system updates. It's probably years old.” Sally said, shaking her head. “He doesn't even keep the footage, it just gets erased.”

“While the doctor whose house the last bust was smashed at didn't seem to have a security system at all.” Anthea waved at Sally to change the display on the screen. “Luckily he wasn't there when it happened. But again the techs found nothing at the crime scene. And no sign of how the person managed to break in.”

“Actually…” Sherlock spoke up, raising his voice. “That's not entirely true.”

Lestrade turned an alarmingly hopeful look at him. “What, did you find something in those case files I gave you?”

“You gave him case files? We always get told off when we try to take them out of the office,” Sally protested as the screen changed to a new set of pictures.

“Yes well technically it's not allowed.” Lestrade acknowledged, making a face. “But I'm also attempting to make sure you can separate your work and personal lives. So I'm the only one allowed to take my work home with me.”

“And how does Molly feel about that?” Anthea asked archly with a familiar eyebrow lift.

Lestrade admitted with a slight wince, “She's very good at making her displeasure known.”

“Who's Molly?” Sherlock asked confused, momentarily distracted from working on the case. He didn't recall ever hearing the name before.

“My wife,” Lestrade explained simply, holding his hand up to reveal a gold band on his ring finger.

“You're  _ married _ ?” Sherlock exclaimed partially in shock. “How did I not know that?”

“You never asked,” Lestrade replied shortly, dropping his hand back down. “Now what were you about to say about our third crime scene?”

“I-” It took Sherlock  a second to get his thoughts back in order, but then remembered what he had been about to say. “You're actually wrong, about two things. One, the doctor did have a security system. It was just a very specific one. And second, the intruder did leave signs of how they broke in. Just not on video.”

In response he received three varying looks of incredulity and confusion from around the room.

Sherlock sighed noisily in frustration. Then he heard John’s voice reminding him to be nice and remember to take time to explain himself. John had been very adamant about that.

So Sherlock took a deep breath and began explaining, attempting to do it in a way the agents could understand. It helped if he pretended he was speaking to John.  “According to your case files the doctor's residence where the third bust was smashed only had surveillance cameras on the hallway outside his residence and outside the building. In fact, he did have a camera within his residence. But it was in a very specific location.” 

He paused for a moment, just for dramatic effect if he was honest, then revealed, “The safe room where he keeps his collection.”

“But there wasn't any safe room at his residence or the area where he had his office. And we looked around everywhere in his place,” Lestrade countered, still looking confused as he crossed his arms.

“Not that you saw, or he let you see.” Sherlock rejoined , shrugging a shoulder. “But at the very back of his residence, near his bedroom, was a hidden room.”

“A hidden room? Really?” Sally challenged. She reached for the keyboard again and started typing. “There's nothing on his blueprints.”

“Well, hidden rooms are supposed to be secret; he wouldn't just put it on his publicly available blueprints.” Anthea said, glancing quickly over to Sherlock. “So tell us, what was in his hidden room you found?”

“A collection of what I can only guess is the doctor's prized possessions,” Sherlock described, recalling what he had seen in that room early that morning. “Most of them may have been antiques or priceless, but the doctor has very poor taste in what he collects.”

“Is that your personal or professional opinion?” Lestrade asked, his mouth twitching slightly.

Sherlock treated him to a stern look. “It's the same thing. You saw the things he didn't care as much about that he did put around the public areas of his residence. That should be enough evidence of his horrible taste.”

“But we found the smashed remains of the plaster bust in the doctor's residence, in what I guess we could kindly call his living room,” Sally interrupted, returning focus to the case they were working. “So the question is, was the bust out there to begin with or was it taken from his hidden room?”

“These busts are supposed to be antiques, right? And worth a lot of money?” Anthea affirmed, looking around at them. “So maybe he did keep it in the hidden room. Whoever smashed it took it from there and into another part of the house.”

“I saw what I am certain was an original Vermeer in that room,” Sherlock offered, digging out his phone to try and find the pictures he had taken. “That is much more priceless than some Napoleon plaster bust.”

“There was a Vermeer?” Lestrade exclaimed, sounding shocked.

“So the security camera was trained on the hidden room of treasures,” Anthea summarized for them, tilting her head. “Which doesn't help us if the plaster bust wasn't in there to begin with.”

“And again, nothing else appeared to be touched in the doctor's place,” Sally added, changing the screen to show different pictures of the doctor's residence. “So again, the intruder knew what they were looking for.”

“The intruder also knew that other than the security camera trained outside the building and the one in the lobby, security in the doctor's building is ridiculously lax,” Sherlock advised, pointing out the obvious flaws he and John had discovered during their late night visit. “It's unbelievably simple to gain entrance to the building and get access to the elevator. If you know which place you're looking for then you just ride the elevator up and get through the door by whatever means necessary.”

“I have a feeling you're speaking from experience,” Lestrade observed, turning around in his chair.

“While your case files were very informative and thorough,” Sherlock commented patiently, trying to be complementary, “there are still many things about this case that I couldn't tell just from what was in your file. We-I- needed to see it for myself.”

“So you decided to break in and take a look around on your own? You're lucky the doctor wasn't home!” Lestrade burst out, scolding, as his voice rose to nearly a shout. “The doctor isn't a suspect, there was no justifiable reason to be there.”

“I told you, I knew there had to be something you missed. So I wanted to see the place for myself,” Sherlock argued defensively, sitting back in his chair. “And I knew the doctor wouldn't be home. Even if he had been home I would have been fine. It wasn't as if I was alone.”

Lestrade gaped at him for a few seconds that Sherlock really enjoyed. But then Lestrade sagged forward and gave a shuddering sigh. “Please, please tell me you didn't take John with you.”

“Who's John?” Sally questioned.

“John Watson, John?” Anthea asked, as if confirming something she already knew.

Sherlock sighed mentally. Of course his brother and Anthea had found out about John. Mycroft had probably stuck his fat nose into his business when Lestrade tried to find him and been able to by finding John.

“Yes, John Watson, John.” Sherlock confirmed. “I managed to find him yesterday. After we… reunited… John tagged along to look around the doctor's place.”

At Lestrade's loud groan Sherlock added, trying to be reassuring, “No one saw us, we didn't touch anything, and nothing horrible happened. But like I mentioned, we did find that hidden room and confirm how easy it is to get into the doctor's place.”

“Because you were lucky, Sherlock!” Lestrade protested. “And John Watson is a civilian. Not one of our agents.”

“Technically,” Sherlock felt it necessary to point out, “John was in the military. Which means he worked for the government at one time.”

“That's a technicality.” Lestrade returned just as angrily, pointing an accusing finger at him now. “We will talk about this later, Sherlock. I won't forget.”

Suddenly Sherlock felt a lot less justified than he had a few seconds ago. He sunk lower in his chair and sighed. “Fine.”

At least Anthea and Sally were very pointedly not looking at him, pretending to look at case files instead.

“So just like the other crimes, the bust came from the same auction house,” Sally jumped in, resuming the discussion of the actual case. “Bought before the first bust was smashed at the auction house but after the fine arts & antiques store.”

“It all comes back to the auction house,” Anthea commented dryly. “Which is the same place where everything comes to a very abrupt end.”

“Funny how that works,” Sally agreed. “We should really go back and try to talk to them again, boss,” she advised Lestrade looking to him.

“If you're willing to take it on yourself, I'm all for it,” Lestrade said agreeably, waving a hand. “Just try not to step on too many toes.”

“Yes boss,” Sally said eagerly, grinning a little. She gathered up the files she'd been looking through. “I'll get right on that.”

“Play nice,” Anthea told her fellow agent, but from her accompanying grin it was very likely she was teasing.

Sally just turned her grin on Anthea, leaning back in her chair triumphantly.

“One last thing.” Lestrade announced, speaking over them. “Thanks to Sherlock's lead about the busts being used to hide something inside them, and a little sleuthing on our part, we managed to find out possible stolen expensive items that could be inside.” 

He pushed off the table and stood on his feet again. “Now with Sherlock's information that these busts are from Italy, or made from Italian plaster, I think it's safe to say that out of those possible items now we can confirm which one we're looking for.”

With surprising dramatic flair, Lestrade walked around the table to beside Sally where he leaned over to type on the keyboard. “I’d bet that this,” he finished typing and pointed at the screen as a new picture appeared, “is our missing hidden gem.”

The picture was of a diamond, one significantly larger than any common diamond. Around 40 carats Sherlock would estimate just by eye. It was incredibly shiny and a color best described as a dark greyish blue. And, seemingly, flawless.

“The diamond we’re looking for, and is hidden inside one of these busts,” Lestrade announced dramatically, “is the Hope Diamond.”

“Last in the possession of an infamous mafia family in Italy, a birthday gift for the daughter of the head of the family,” Anthea continued summarizing the multitude of information on the screen. “But the mafia family head has recently come forward to inform the appropriate authorities that the diamond has unfortunately and mysteriously gone missing.”

“The diamond also has a very torrid history.” Sally jumped in. “It never stays in the possession of any one owner for very long. It's gone through the hands of countless owners, and it never ends happily.”

“If this missing diamond is hidden in one of the busts, it hasn't turned up yet in the three smashed busts so far,” Sherlock pointed out the obvious facts. “So where is the diamond, if it is hidden in another plaster bust we haven't found yet?”

“That,” Lestrade announced, looking like he was enjoying this additional mystery, “is the multi-million dollar question.”

This case just kept getting better and better.

* * *

 

part two on Friday! (hopefully)


	4. A Diamond in the Plaster Busts (part two)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now they know what they're looking for, Lestrade, Donovan, Anthea, and Sherlock get to work trying to find the missing infamous diamond.
> 
> Discoveries are made but short-lived as the team receives a call about another smashed bust at the auction house. But this time there's also a dead body.
> 
> Investigations at the auction house lead them onto the trail of a suspect, and from there they have to work against the clock as the mystery unravels and the team is right on the suspects heels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I am so so sorry for how long it took my to finish and post this. This part kind of got away from me (as you'll see). But I really like how it turned out!
> 
> Thanks as always to the ever patient and supportive pipmer! As well as the helpful folks at AD.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy! Kudos and comments appreciated as always!
> 
> (Hopefully I will be back next week with a new episode :) )

After they all agreed that it was the Hope Diamond they were looking for hidden somewhere within one of the still missing busts, Lestrade ended the briefing with an overly cheerful and enthusiastic promise that they would find a way to solve this case.

 

Anthea looked across the table at Sally to meet the gaze of her fellow agent and friend. They shared a long-suffering and well-used expression of entertainment at Lestrade’s antics and somehow persevering sense of optimism. There was a reason their team had the highest case closing rate in their division, but it was hard won and well-deserved. Partially due to Lestrade’s optimism and tenacity, and their stubbornness as a team.

 

Sally pushed her chair back from the table and collected the case files she’d laid out in front of her. “I’ll head out to the auction house. Hopefully I can talk to more people and find out actually useful information.” She stood up, pocketing her phone. “Don’t worry, they won’t get away easily.”

 

“I have complete trust in you,” Lestrade affirmed, smiling back at her. “Just remember we’re investigating, not interrogating.” He turned to look at Anthea, looking a little apprehensive. “Anthea, I think maybe-”

 

But she already had a counter-answer ready. “With all due respect, I’d like to stay here and work with Sherlock.”

 

The two surprised and one wary gaze turned on her after her response was nearly what she expected. Her fellow agents knew about her history with Sherlock, but that wasn’t entirely her reason for staying back. She definitely trusted Sally to get results on her own.

 

“Fine, fine then.” Lestrade recovered, clearing his throat. “Sally go ahead and go to the auction house. We’ll continue working here.”

 

“See you soon then!” Sally called, walking around the table and towards the door. “Good luck.”

 

“We might need it,” Greg replied just before she waved and closed the door behind her.

 

After a few seconds Sherlock spoke, making Anthea realize that he hadn’t said anything in minutes. She looked over at him to see that he’d sat back in his chair, more reticent than she was used to seeing him. “I’d like to look at the remains of the busts more closely. And at your information about the busts and the diamond.”

 

“All right, we can make that happen.” Lestrade agreed with a nod. “Anthea can show you where everything is. I’ll stay in here and review the information we do have. And look into that Italy angle.”

 

Anthea rose from her chair, and stepped away from the table. “Follow me,” she instructed Sherlock, walking slowly towards the door. She was eager to talk to him now, to find out what he was thinking. But not in front of Lestrade.

 

Sherlock slowly stood up from the chair, quickly glancing assessing between her and Lestrade. But he nodded jerkily and followed after her.

 

“Keep me in the loop!” Lestrade called as the two of them walked through the door and out of the conference room.

 

Anthea remained quiet as she led Sherlock down the steps to the main floor of the office then off to the right towards the conference rooms. She appreciated that Sherlock stayed silent, even as they passed the rows of desks and the quiet hum of busy agents. Of course Sherlock did glance around constantly, observing their surroundings, but Anthea was experienced enough being around Holmes the elder that she was able to ignore it.

 

When they finally turned down the hallway at the edge of the main room where the conference rooms were, Anthea stopped after a few steps and abruptly turned around.

 

Sherlock managed to stop in time, coming to an abrupt halt a few inches away. He looked questioningly at her, frowning a little, but didn’t say anything. She knew they hadn’t seen each other in years, not since a year or so into her employ with Mr. Holmes and it was her second time dragging him out of his dorm room nearly unconscious. 

 

“You look good,” Anthea told him quietly, looking him over. “A little skinny, but I’m sure Greg and Molly will find a way to feed you up some.”

 

“Food in prison isn’t the most nutritional of options,” Sherlock responded with the same sharp tone she remembered, and had witnessed briefly today. Even high or in the depths of withdrawal Sherlock could be just as cutting. And it seemed prison hadn’t improved his temperament very much. 

 

He gave her a narrow-eyed look, skeptical, “How would Agent Lestrade and his wife plan on ‘feeding me up some’ exactly?”

 

“Ask me again after you’ve met Molly and had some of her home cooking,” Anthea promised with a wink just before she turned around again. Without another word she lead him to the conference room they’d set up as a second command center for this case. It was where they kept the evidence boxes and copies of the case files, and had a projector screen displaying all of the information they’d tied together so far. In addition to all the files and notes spread across the table.

 

Anthea reached out and opened the door to the conference room, waving Sherlock in ahead of her. He walked inside and stood against the back wall of the room, surveilling it. Meanwhile Anthea followed him inside and closed the door behind her.

 

“All the evidence we collected at the scenes is in each of these boxes,” she told him walking to the table where three cardboard boxes sat next to each other. “Including those bust pieces.”

 

With a soft ‘oh’ Sherlock peeled himself away from the wall and walked over to stand next to her, shoes quiet on the carpeting. “Am I allowed to handle them or do I need protective gloves or something?”

 

“Gloves yes, but only as a safety precaution,” Anthea held up the box of latex gloves sitting next to one of the evidence boxes. “We wouldn’t want to ruin those hands of yours.”

 

“Right,” Sherlock huffed reaching out to snatch the box from her. He tugged out two gloves and pulled them on, stretching them over his hands. Once he was successful Sherlock turned to her and held out his hands. “Happy now?”

 

“Very,” Anthea smiled sweetly at him, enjoying this back and forth. “Go ahead, have fun with the smashed bust pieces. I’m going to look through the files again and see if I can find any ties to Italy.”

 

“I’m glad you’ve realized now Italy is important seeing as both the busts and diamond come from there,” Sherlock responded dryly, reaching into the evidence box closest to him. He pulled out the large evidence bag with the pieces of the bust and set it on the table in front of him.

 

“Well let’s get to work then,” Anthea announced as she left Sherlock’s side and walked over to the large projection screen. She also spread out the case files closest to her for quick reference.

 

For the next however long they worked there was focused silence in the room. The only noises were from Anthea turning pages in the files or her shoes on the carpet, or Sherlock’s increased grumbling and mumbling to himself as he worked.

 

She didn’t look over to see exactly what he was doing, Anthea didn’t think he’d appreciate being watched. But from what she could hear between the grumbling and increased rustling it wasn’t going well. Or he wasn’t pleased with what he was finding.

 

And of course in the meantime no matter where she looked she wasn’t finding any connection between anything they’d found so far and Italy. None of the victims whose busts had been smashed or where they’d been smashed had any connection to Italy. The only part of their case that actually did connect with Italy was the auction house and the busts. Supposedly.

 

“Anthea,” Sherlock spoke up suddenly, startling her a little. She turned away from the screen to find him bent over three partially-reconstructed plaster busts. None of them were completely reconstructed, which added a bit of a macabre element. But honestly she’d never liked the look of them anyways.

 

“Did you discover something?” Anthea asked walking around to him. He’d taken off his jacket and flung it over the back of the chair next to him, and pushed up his sleeves. At the moment he was currently turning over one of the half-formed busts in his hands.

 

“Yes, and no,” Sherlock muttered, in a way Anthea couldn’t quite tell if he was talking to himself or to her.

 

“All right,” Anthea said, perching on the arm of the chair on his other side. “Tell me.”

 

He glanced briefly over at her for just a second before returning his attention to the bust in his hands. “Well, first of all these aren’t antiques. They’re not even centuries old.” Sherlock brought the bust he was holding closer to his face and inhaled deeply. “I’d say they’re only months old at best.”

 

Anthea stared at him in shock. “What do you mean they’re only months old?” She reached out and picked up one of the other half-constructed busts. “They were sold at the auction house for millions because they were supposedly antique priceless busts of some would say an important historical figure.”

 

“Well they’re not.” Sherlock scoffed. “So either the auction house was fooled and made a mistake, or…”

 

“Or they did know and just didn’t share it with us.” Anthea finished, considering. She pulled her phone out of her pocket and unlocked it. “I’ll let Sally know, she’ll want to question the auction house owner about why he failed to mention that.”

 

“I’m sure he had a very good reason,” Sherlock commented sarcastically, setting down the bust he was holding on the table then took back hers. “She should also try to find out where exactly these busts came from and where they were made. They’re not just made from the same mixture of Italian plaster, all of these busts are identical.”

 

“You mean try and get a more specific answer than just all of Italy?” Anthea asked dryly, finishing sending off her text to Sally. She leaned in closer to look at the busts, doubtful she would see the same things he was. Mr. Holmes appreciated her mind and her skills as above average, but she knew her mind wasn’t like theirs. Yet she still wanted to try and see.

 

He tensed slightly when she leaned in too closely, his hands stilling above the pieces. So Anthea stopped exactly where she was and let him take a deep breath. 

 

Then Sherlock turned away from her and looked down at the busts when he spoke again. “They are all identical which means they were made from the same mold. There’s no other way they could be so perfectly identical. Which means you’re likely looking for a factory somewhere in Italy that was still functioning at least several months ago, and that main function is making plaster molds.”

 

Anthea exhaled slowly, coming to the realization that the lull in their case was apparently over. As Lestrade liked to say it was full speed ahead from here on. “All right, we should let Lestrade know about this. Obviously the connection between the auction house and Italy is what we need to focus on. Since everything seems to comes back to there.”

 

“It all started there,” Sherlock agreed, picking up one of the busts and turning it over to look at the inside. “Although as a means to transport an infamous diamond and sneak it into the country, using plaster busts is rather ingenious.”

 

“You can tell them that when we catch whomever came up with the idea,” Anthea told him, unlocking her phone and typing out another message- to Lestrade this time.

 

Sherlock huffed quietly, and set down the bust only to pick up another one. “All of these were hollow inside leaving room for the diamond because of the way they were put together. The other busts made in the same way are most likely to possibly have the diamond inside.”

 

Anthea sighed quietly and opened a new message to Lestrade. “I’m not sure I want to know what other historical figures this factory creates as plaster busts. But we’ll keep an eye out for the Napoleon ones.”

 

“Joy,” Sherlock muttered to himself. He put the bust down on the table and started the process of peeling off the gloves.

 

Once the message was sent off Anthea took advantage of the chance to watch him for a moment. He did look better than the last time she saw him, but then again it was obvious being imprisoned had left a mark on him. At the time she had agreed with Mr. Holmes and the law that as a consequence for his actions Sherlock should serve time in prison. But now she was left wondering if maybe that hadn’t been the best plan.

 

“Sherlock,” she said quietly, drawing his attention. 

 

In one motion Sherlock sharply tugged off his right glove and tossed both of them onto the table in disgust. Then he turned his head to give her a searching look.

 

“You’re sure you’re alright?” Anthea asked quietly, trying not to be condescending just because she knew how much he disliked it.

 

“Of course I am,” Sherlock answered frowning, looking like he didn’t understand why she would even ask. “Are you?” He asked with some hesitance, and Anthea wondered if he was just asking because he thought he should.

 

Anthea smiled back at him. “Of course I am. Now this case is finally coming together.”

 

The excited smile curving his mouth and the bright look in Sherlock’s eyes told her plainly that he was just as excited about the prospects of this case as she was. “Should we go see Agent Lestrade?”

 

“I think we should,” Anthea agreed, standing to her feet and stretching slightly. “Come with me, we can leave all of this in here.”

 

“Fine,” Sherlock answered standing up and pushing the chair back. He spared a glance for the busts and boxes before walking around the chair to stand behind it.

 

Anthea looked over at him then walked over to the door and opened it. She waited for Sherlock to follow after her before they went out into the hallway. 

 

Just as they did Lestrade came rushing around the corner. When he saw them coming out of the conference room he abruptly stopped, stumbling a little.

 

“I was just coming to get you,” Lestrade said, reaching out and resting a hand on the wall. He sounded a little out of breath, and his suit had gotten wrinkled in the space of time since they’d seen him last. Probably from his hurrying.

 

“You aren’t going to collapse are you?” Sherlock asked, somehow managing to sound both worried and curious.

 

Anthea waved a hand at Sherlock to quiet him and told Lestrade, “We were just coming to find you. Sherlock discovered something about the busts.”

 

“Excellent,” Lestrade replied, straightening from the wall with some effort. “But you'll have to tell me in the car.”

 

“What happened?” Sherlock asked just as Anthea asked, “Where are we going?”

 

“To the auction house,” Lestrade held up the cell phone he'd been clutching in his hand. “Sally just called, there was a break in last night and another bust was smashed.”

 

“Something's different this time,” Sherlock commented, looking Lestrade over closely. “What’s changed?”

 

“This time there's also a dead body with its head smashed in.” Lestrade announced rather dramatically. “Right near the shipping crate with the new busts that arrived just last night.”

 

Whatever looks of surprise or shock Sherlock and Anthea were giving him seemed to amuse Lestrade. “You’ll join me there then,” he suggested, tilting his head towards the main floor of the office behind him.

 

“They didn’t think they should tell us about another shipment of busts, or about a break in?” Anthea spoke up from next to Sherlock, stepping forward.

 

“You know how helpful they’ve been at the auction house up to now,” Lestrade answered back, raising an eyebrow at her.

 

“You said there was a dead body, one with its head smashed in,” Sherlock interrupted impatiently. “Have you been able to identify it? Has anyone looked at it yet?”

 

Lestrade’s forehead creased with confusion. “Not yet no, since only Sally’s on the scene. But she called the medical examiner and he’s on his way.”

 

“If you want me to come with you to the auction house,” Sherlock announced stubbornly, raising his chin in defiance. “I want John to come along as well.”

 

“What? No, absolutely not.” Lestrade refused, shaking his head. “I’m not going to let a civilian into a crime scene! Especially one with a dead body at it.”

 

“You’re not understanding, Lestrade,” Sherlock sighed, sounding disappointed. “That’s why John is coming along to the crime scene. To examine the body.”

 

Lestrade still didn’t look like he was about to approve of this plan. So Anthea intervened before the argument could derail any further. Which it might.

 

“Lestrade, it might actually be a good idea to have John Watson join us.” Anthea advised, glancing sideways to Sherlock before meeting Lestrade’s gaze. “I’ve seen his file. He’s a decorated war veteran, and he’s also a very well-qualified doctor. He could really be helpful.”

 

“He’s still a civilian,” Lestrade protested, crossing his arms. But he did look like he was wavering slightly. When Sherlock opened his mouth Lestrade pointed a finger at him, “Even if he was once in the military and worked for the government.”

 

“You’ve met him, Lestrade.” Sherlock insisted, frowning irritably. “John will be completely professional. He won’t cause any trouble, he’ll just be there to help. Like I am.”

 

Lestrade was silent for a surprisingly long time, looking closely at the two of them. Anthea was sure he would give in, at least this one time. Somehow even despite everything he’d seen in this line of work Lestrade remained optimistic about people.

 

And finally she was proved right when Lestrade sighed deeply and slowly uncrossed his arms. “All right, fine. He can join us at the auction house, but only to inspect the body because of his professional expertise. And,” he added, pointing a stern finger at Sherlock, “It’s only for this one time. We’re still on probation with you as a consultant.”

 

“Fine,” Sherlock agreed, but he actually looked pleased. “I’ll text him the address once we’re in your car.”

 

“Joy,” Lestrade said turning around and starting to walk towards the office floor.

 

Sherlock and Anthea followed after him, Sherlock with a visible spring in his step. Anthea just shook her head and trailed slightly behind, trying to prepare herself for what to come.

\--------------

When Sherlock had texted inviting him to a crime scene of all things, this time with Agent Lestrade's permission supposedly, John had been surprised. Then he immediately turned to thinking about how he was going to explain why he needed to leave the clinic in the middle of his shift.

 

Now that he was standing next to the taxi that had brought him here just outside the auction house where Sherlock had told him yet another bust had been smashed, John wasn't sure exactly what to think. Sherlock had barely been out of prison for 24 hours and already he’d turned John's life upside down again. Hopefully this time it would end better.

 

For a crime scene there wasn't much activity on the street, except for a fancier car John thought he'd seen outside Sherlock’s new home. The only sign something was wrong here was yellow crime scene tape hanging across the front door.

 

John waited for the taxi to drive off before he started walking across the sidewalk. As he reached the steps the elaborately carved wooden door with stained glass panes at the top opened and a dark skinned woman in a suit stepped out.

 

“You're John Watson?” She said looking directly at him. Apparently they had been waiting for him. Or she had been sent to guide him around.

 

“And you're a FBI agent,” John responded levelly, stepping up to stand next to her on the top step. “You work with Agent Lestrade?”

 

“I'm on his team, yes,” the woman explained with a sharp smile. One that would have been intimidating if he wasn't used to being barked at by superior officers. She stretched out a hand. “Agent Sally Donovan.”

 

John took her hand and shook it firmly. “John Watson. Thanks for coming out to meet me.”

 

“The director of the auction house was very adamant about not wandering around unaccompanied,” She explained, eyebrows raised. “Greg's trying to keep him happy for as long as possible. He's only just started cooperating.”

 

“Well, I guess it works out for both of us then,” John commented, following her inside as she opened the door to the auction house.

 

It was dark inside, and John's eyes took a moment to adjust. Once he was able to see again, he was suitably impressed by the interior of the auction house. Even just the lobby was grandiose with dark woodwork, vaulted ceilings, and gilded decorations.

 

“Wow,” John breathed, trying to look around and follow the agent at the same time. The hallway she took him down was decorated the same with dark carpeting and paneled walls. Through one open doorway he caught a glimpse of a large room with rows of velvet chairs, and at the front of the room a platform with several stands.

 

“Only the best surroundings for expensive antiquities from around the world,” Agent Donovan said quietly under her breath as they turned down a hallway towards the back of the building.

 

“Including plaster busts of Napoleon?” John half-joked, following her down a set of stairs. These weren't carpeted, just ordinary cement stairs.

 

“Actually those not as much,” Agent Donovan commented, pushing through a set of wooden doors at the bottom of the steps. There was a plaque on one that said ‘Employees Only,’ but apparently that included the FBI.

 

They continued down the ordinary hallway with white linoleum floors and white walls and ceiling for several steps before they came to another set of doors. These were also white and had blacked out windows, with a card reader off to the right.

 

“Holmes vouched for you by the way, and the boss agreed, so you'll have to be on your best behavior,” Donovan told him, taking out a key card and sliding it through the reader.

 

A second later it beeped at her and a light on it turned green. Donovan reached out to push the door open and waved John through ahead of her.

 

“I promise,” John told her as he stepped through into a large room and turned to wait for her. “Scouts honor.”

 

She treated him to a skeptical look. “Were you really a scout?”

 

John let his hand fall back to his side. “Not exactly. But I was a soldier, and I'm a doctor.” He gave her his most disarming smile. “So you can trust me.”

 

“Right,” was Agent Donovan’s brisk reply. She started walking forward along the concrete floor and brick walled corridor they found themselves in. “Everyone else is down this way in the storage area. That's where the shipping crate is.”

 

“Sherlock told me another bust was found smashed overnight,” John remembered, following quickly after her. “And this time there's a dead body.”

 

“That's apparently why you're here,” Donovan told him just as they walked out into a large storage room filled with shipping crates, boxes and tables.

 

John looked around the room briefly before spotting Sherlock and Agent Lestrade standing with another woman by a shipping crate near the other side of the room.

 

Donovan left John behind to walk quickly across the room towards where the small group was gathered talking. When she was close to them she called, “I found him, boss.”

 

Agent Lestrade left off talking to the other woman in the small group to turn to look to Donovan instead. “Great, thanks Sally!”

 

Without a word the woman Agent Lestrade had been talking to tucked a notebook under her arm and walked across the room. She passed John then walked through the doors they'd just come through.

 

“Thanks for joining us, Doctor Watson,” Agent Lestrade greeted as John finally walked up to him. He was smiling, which John took as a good sign. The agent was already taking a risk.

 

“I know this is a bit unconventional,” John replied, taking the man's hand and shaking it. “But I appreciate your letting me come.”

 

“And you come when Holmes calls you?” Donovan asked sounding a little skeptical. She glanced over to the crate where Sherlock must be busy and ignoring them.

 

Sure enough, at that moment Sherlock popped up from behind the crate, hair wild and disheveled, to stare wide-eyed at him.

 

“What took you so long?” Sherlock demanded. But there was something wrong in his voice, and his expression. That wasn't the usual confident Sherlock.

 

So John fell back on his and Sherlock's usual method of conversation. “Well it turns out that when you have to leave in the middle of your shift, you have to actually have a reason.”

 

Sherlock made a face at that, impatient as usual when it came to ordinary people things. “At least you get to be a doctor now. Fix people.” He waved a hand vaguely at him. “You enjoy that.”

 

“Yes it's part of why I studied to become a doctor,” John explained slowly, glancing over at Agent Lestrade who was watching them.

 

“Sorry to take you away from your work,” Agent Lestrade told him, leaning in a little. “But Sherlock thought you'd be able to help us with the body we found.”

 

“Even though the proper procedure is having the medical examiner come,” Donovan chimed in treating them both to a skeptical look.

 

“John counts,” Sherlock argued, narrow-eyed. “He's better even.”

 

“Let me examine the body first, Sherlock,” John scolded, holding out a hand to try and silence his friend. “Then you can say I’m better.”

 

“The body's over here,” Agent Lestrade told him, walking around the crate and the table next to it towards where Sherlock was standing.

 

John followed him, sending Sherlock a questioning look now Lestrade’s back was turned. But Sherlock just shook his head then ducked back behind the crate.

 

“I'll go see if I can convince someone to hand over those shipping records now,” Donovan announced before turning on her heel and walking across the room to another set of double doors.

 

Agent Lestrade guided him over to where the body of a man was lying on the concrete floor a few feet away from the crate. He was likely lying where he'd fallen, and really the first thing noticeable was the bloody gash on the back of the man's head.

 

“What can you tell me, Doctor Watson?” Lestrade asked curiously, crossing his arms. He was hovering just a foot or so back, but John was still very aware of his presence.

 

John knelt down by the body's head then leaned in close to inspect the wound. It had bled a lot which was typical for head wounds, but meant it was hard to see the wound. So it might or might not be the cause of death.

 

“Do you have gloves, Agent Lestrade?” John asked, leaning back on his heels and turning to look over his shoulder.

 

Lestrade looked surprised at the question, but dutifully pulled out a pair of latex gloves from his jacket pocket.

 

John took both and started pulling them on, turning to glance at Sherlock. Who was very obviously not wearing gloves.

 

And for some reason Sherlock was kneeling on the ground bent over to look closely at the bottom of the crate. While still wearing that fancy coat of his that billowed out behind him.

 

Knowing how Sherlock could get distracted by his narrow focus, John cleared his throat and called, “Sherlock, come here and tell me what you see.”

 

Sherlock stopped his inspection of the crate long enough to turn and look at him. “What?” He asked blankly, which told John that Sherlock was still distracted by whatever he'd observed off the crate.

 

“Come here,” John repeated, snapping the second glove onto his wrist. He carefully kept his tone level and patient, trying to avoid making Sherlock snappish. “I want to know what you see.”

 

As Sherlock moved over to kneel on the other side of the body from John, above them Lestrade protested, “Doctor Watson, I asked for your opinion. Sherlock doesn't have any medical training.”

 

“Please be patient,” John answered and looked across at Sherlock. “We’re going to turn him on his side, all right? Towards you.”

 

Sherlock nodded in acknowledgment, and reaching out together they managed to shift the man to lie on his side facing John.

 

Lestrade’s sharp intake of breath was probably an appropriate reaction to the bloodied mess of the man's face. There were small and deep cuts all over his face intermixed with the dried blood. His nose looked broken and one eye was swollen shut. It was an alarming amount of blood, but not as severe or life-ending as the wound on the back of his head.

 

“The main injury was to the back of his head; these cuts to his face are minor and contributed to the blood loss but not life-threatening,” John explained, reaching out and turning the man's head slightly. “The head wound was what killed him, by a heavy blunt object.”

 

“Such as a plaster bust?” Sherlock questioned, as if he just needed to confirm a theory. 

 

Playing along, John nodded and leaned further over the body to see the head injury from this new angle. “Sure, if whoever was using it was strong or desperate enough.”

 

“They must have taken this guy by surprise,” Lestrade contributed, distracting his focus. “This guy looks like he can hold himself pretty well in a fight.”

 

From where he was kneeling by the body's outstretched arms Sherlock dropped the man's left hand back to the floor and announced, “Obvious. He's a hitman for the Italian mob, a successful top-level expert at making problems disappear.”

 

“What?” Lestrade spluttered in confusion, looking between Sherlock and the body. “How do you-?”

 

“Take us through it, Sherlock.” John interrupted quietly. “Tell us what you see.”

 

He knew from experience that even though Sherlock might make a snide comment about how blind they were to the obvious he did secretly enjoy proving his talents. One just had to ask nicely and not be harsh.

 

As expected, Sherlock rolled his eyes but did comply. He gripped the sleeve of the man's jacket and used it to lift his arm up again. Sherlock pointed at the man's hand and rattled off, “There is bruising around his knuckles that shows repeated use, and scabbing on his hands from poorly healed cuts. So he gets into fights often, not just brawls but real fights. Fights for his life. Which, as you mentioned Lestrade, he always wins.”

 

Sherlock dropped the arm again without another mention and shuffled around to kneel by the top of the man's head. He reached out and pointed at the man's nose. “A close look at his nose provides further evidence. If you look past the blood and cuts you can tell something is wrong about it. John, health professional that he is, can attest that it's actually been broken multiple times and each time was set hastily. Likely by the man himself.”

 

When Sherlock took a pause to breathe John leaned in beside his friend to look closely at the nose in question. And sure enough, it had been broken and reset multiple times. Enough to leave permanent marks and a hint of disjointedness.

 

“He’s right,” John confirmed and leaned back again to let the others see. “It's a common for people in certain, not so legal, professions.” He quickly glanced at Sherlock again, but the man was closely examining the sleeves of the jacket the body was wearing. “Or those who get their kicks getting into fights and risking their lives.”

 

Sherlock glanced up long enough to treat him to a look of askance and make a scoffing noise. “Those days are long behind me, John. It's not a habit I plan on picking up again.”

 

“Wait, you used to get into brawls?” Lestrade asked, sounding like he wasn't sure if he believed this or not. Obviously he didn't know Sherlock well at all if he wasn't aware of Sherlock’s tendency to repeatedly put his life at risk. John had tried to get Sherlock out of the habit but it hadn't always worked. More times than he'd like he was the one who ended up getting into fights because of Sherlock.

 

“Moving on,” Sherlock said briskly then reached out and tugged on the back of the man's jacket to reveal his neck and shoulders. Now put on view was a very large black ink tattoo that covered most of the man's shoulders. 

 

“Wow, that is some patriotic pride,” Lestrade commented sounding impressed.

 

“It definitely took some strength to sit through getting that,” John agreed, trying to piece together all the different parts of the expansive tattoo. He suspected Sherlock could do a much better job of it.

 

“Part of his efforts to prove himself to the mafia family, no doubt,” Sherlock explained and released the man's collar. “And if you look at his hands…” He shifted around to reach over and lift the man's other arm. “He succeeded.”

 

Lestrade and John both leaned in to look at the limp hand Sherlock turned to angle slightly towards them. In the webbing between his thumb and index finger was a small black and blue five pointed star. 

 

It wasn't familiar to John, but Lestrade exhaled loudly in a huff of air. “Damn, you were right,” he said, sounding actually impressed. “That definitely ties him to the Italian mafia.”

 

“As I said,” Sherlock said as he released the man’s arm from his grip and sat back with a slightly smug smile.

 

“Well that’ll help us figure out who he is,” Lestrade agreed, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his phone. “If we know he's with the mafia then he’ll probably be in the system.”

 

“So he didn't have a wallet or phone on him then?” John asked, looking over the body in front of him for anything else that could be important. “I suppose that wouldn't be very professional.”

 

“The other important question is why is he here. If he was sent here by the mafia what business do they have at an auction house?” Lestrade said aloud as he typed out something on his phone.

 

“Besides their obvious connection to this auction house and the new shipment of plaster busts this crate used to contain,” Sherlock responded dryly, gesturing at the large wooden crate behind him. “They must have alerted him to the arrival of the next shipment and sent him here to investigate.”

 

“And whoever attacked him was just caught by surprise?” John asked, moving to look closer at the exposed skin for any defensive wounds. But other than the wound to the head and cuts on his face all John could see was some bruising around his wrists.

 

“More like the other way around,” Lestrade countered, stepping carefully around the body to a few feet away from the crate. “There's a set of footprints over here, ones that look like they're smaller than the bodies. Muddy too. If I had to guess-”

 

“Please don't guess,” Sherlock muttered snappishly. While John and Lestrade were talking he'd moved around to kneel by the body's shoes.

 

“It looks like someone else was here looking for the busts. And our mafia hitman surprised them.” Lestrade finished, ignoring Sherlock's outburst. “Which, surprisingly, didn't turn out well for him.”

 

“Impressive the damage you can do with a plaster bust,” John mentioned, looking again at the head wound. He tried to get a closer look at it past all the hair.

 

Sherlock looked up from where he was inspecting the bottom of the man's shoes to stare at Lestrade. “Did you find the bust?”

 

“It was in pieces down that hallway,” Lestrade said, pointing at the set of double doors off to their left that Sally had left through. “The other thief must have made a run for it after killing the hitman with the bust. But when he didn't get far decided to smash it instead of running off with it.”

 

“Is the bust the same as the others? I want to see it,” Sherlock not quite demanded, rising to his feet and striding over to Lestrade.

 

“Sally’s off collecting the pieces now, she’ll be back soon,” Lestrade said calmly, squatting down to look at the footprints. “Can you tell me anything about these footprints?”

 

John carefully turned the body over onto its back, and as he did something slipped out of a pocket and fell to the floor. “I’m guessing this bust didn’t have a jewel inside it either?”

 

“No, still no sign of the diamond. So it has to be in one of the other two busts that came in with this shipment,” Lestrade answered, consulting something on his phone. “Anthea’s gone to try and find the director to ask where they’ve gone.”

 

“Can you do anything with this?” John asked, holding up the photograph from the man’s pocket so they could see it. “Seeing as he’s a hitman maybe this is the man he was sent after.”

 

Lestrade turned to look, squinting a little at the picture like it could help him see it better. Sherlock didn’t look up from where his face was inches away from the pair of muddy footprints. But he did hold out his hand, palm up.

 

Obviously Sherlock’s manners hadn’t improved at all since they used to work together. Yet for some reason John still found himself climbing to his feet and stepping around the body. He walked over to Sherlock and Lestrade and dutifully handed Sherlock the photo.

 

Sherlock took it from him and leaned back to study the picture. It was of a younger man, dark hair and eyes, with dark tanned skin standing in front of some kind of industrial building wearing what looked like a work uniform. There was no name tag or logo on the uniform, and no signage on the building behind him. The only useful thing about it was the man’s appearance.

 

“Makes sense to carry around a picture of the person you’ve been sent after in your pocket,” Lestrade agreed, hovering over Sherlock to see the picture better. “We can run it through the system, see if we get any hits.”

 

“Try customs and immigration first,” Sherlock spoke up suddenly, handing up the picture to Lestrade. “He’s originally from Italy, that’s where that picture was taken. But he recently entered the country, which is probably when the hitman was sent after him. It’s difficult to tell just from the photograph but his shoes appear to match the size shoes that made these footprints. So considering he’s standing in front of a factory building in the picture, a mafia hitman found dead near a shipping crate once containing plaster busts had his photograph, and it’s likely his footprints were also found at the scene, I’d say you should consider him your primary suspect.”

 

There was a quiet clicking noise as Lestrade took a picture of the photograph with his phone. “Exactly what I was thinking,” Lestrade agreed, and sent off the picture. “Hopefully it won’t take long.”

 

“That’s still amazing,” John confided quietly to Sherlock, squatting down close next to his friend. “Even after all this time.”

 

Sherlock slowly turned to look at him, that anxious look back on his face again. “You know you still do that out loud?”

 

John checked to make sure Lestrade wasn’t listening then lowered his voice to say honestly, “Because you need to hear it. And I know you’re more likely to believe me.”

 

Sherlock scoffed quietly, but he was smiling a little. That small secret smile John always liked to see.

 

So, while they had a quick break, John quickly added, “You’re doing great. Lestrade is listening to you and you’re working well together.” He took a risk and reached out to pat Sherlock on the back. “I’m sure you’ll have this case wrapped up in no time.”

 

“I know,” Sherlock said with false bravado, glancing around the room and not looking at him. “But… I am glad you decided to come when I asked you to.”

 

“So am I,” John agreed quietly, patting Sherlock on the back again. “Just, keep it up.”

 

“All right, I’m having the picture and the footprint run now.” Lestrade announced, putting away his phone. “I did flag it for customs and immigration, like you said. We’ll get a name soon for our new suspect.”

 

On the other side of the room the double doors burst open with a loud bang. The three of them turned just in time to see Sally and Anthea walk in, shepherding a middle aged man in loose-fitting trousers and a suit jacket ahead of them. He did not look very happy, especially compared to Sally’s smug smile and Anthea’s confidence.

 

Sally looped her arm around the man’s elbow and guided him over to where Lestrade, Sherlock, and John were standing. In her other hand she was holding a large plastic evidence bag filled with pieces of plaster bust.

 

“What’s this?” Lestrade asked a little too cheerfully, focusing his attention on the distressed newcomer.

 

“Are those the pieces of the new plaster bust?” Sherlock questioned insistently, before Sally could answer Lestrade’s question.

 

She glanced to him, a little taken aback by the question. “Uhm, yes?” Sally replied, holding out the evidence bag.

 

Sherlock snatched it from her and promptly opened the bag without any hesitation. He started to reach into the bag for the pieces but John cleared his throat to stop him. “Gloves,” John reminded Sherlock, pulling off the gloves he was wearing and held them out. “You don’t want to mishandle the murder weapon.”

 

Sherlock not quite rolled his eyes but did take the gloves.

 

“I’m not going anywhere,” the middle-aged well dressed man Sally was holding hostage protested in a surprisingly high-pitched voice. “Can’t you let me go now? I told you I would come on my own.”

 

“Doesn’t mean you’re not a person of interest,” Sally rejoined, tugging sharply on the man’s arm. “Especially since I saw you snooping around the smashed bust.”

 

“Were you?” Lestrade, asked sounding very interested in this new information. “Why were you so interested in the smashed bust pieces?”

 

The man shook his head insistently, holding up his hands, “I just saw them on the ground, I don’t know where they came from. I was walking down that hallway, minding my own business, and noticed them.”

 

“Likely story,” Sally scoffed, still not releasing him from her death grip. “That hallway only leads to this storage area, so you were coming in here for some reason. Why? To look at the new shipment that came in before anyone else could?”

 

“I heard there was a new shipment, yes, but I didn’t know that it contained more plaster busts. I was just curious.” The man protested looking past Lestrade at the crate, leaning a little to the side to try to see the crate.

 

“Of course you were,” Lestrade agreed with a faint tone. He reached out and plucked off an ID badge hanging from the man’s pocket. “Alex Witherton, European Works of Art.” Lestrade turned the badge so the man could see it. “I don’t have a lot of experience with auction houses, but that sounds like you’re in charge of any European pieces that come through this auction house.”

 

“Which means,” Sally chimed in, taking the badge from Lestrade to look at it, “that you would know if a certain crate of Napoleon plaster busts arrived from Italy. Yet,” she leaned in and slid the badge into the man’s pocket then patted it lightly, “I didn’t see your name on the shipping and intake records Anthea found. That seems strange.”

 

“I just heard about it this morning when I came in. I didn’t know it was coming so I came down here to take a look,” Witherton protested, glaring at Sally.

 

“Right, and what about the other shipment that came in around a month ago?” Lestrade questioned, crossing his arms. “Were you aware of that shipment and what was in it?”

 

Witherton pulled his arm out of Sally’s hold and stood up straighter, holding his head up high. “Of course I was, I’m in charge of all European pieces of art that come through this auction house.”

 

“So you were aware and had previous knowledge of both the first shipment of plaster busts coming from Italy and now this one,” Lestrade affirmed, treating the man to a fierce look. “Did you also know that the busts are actually fake?”

 

“Yes- What?- No!” The man answered, his confidence quickly collapsing into confusion. He stared wide-eyed between Lestrade and Sally, looking alarmed. “What?”

 

“He’s faking,” Sherlock announced, looking up from his inspection of the large piece of plaster bust he was holding. “Not a terrible actor, but he’s still lying.” He turned a narrow-eyed look on Witherton. “You knew the busts were fake and recently made reproductions, yet you labeled them as real antiquities and sold them for a very profitable price.” Sherlock dropped the piece of bust back into the bag. “And this one was also fake. Yet I expect you were also planning to sell it for an exorbitant price.”

 

“That sounds pretty illegal to me,” Sally commented, arching her eyebrows at him. “We could put you away for that.”

 

“Especially with four of those busts smashed already, three break ins and now one dead body,” Lestrade added in. “Seems like it’s stacking up against your favor. So you should know that this is the point where you should start helping us.”

 

“Dead body? What dead body?” Witherton asked sounding honestly alarmed. “Okay, yes, I did know the busts were fake but I didn’t know someone died!”

 

Lestrade and Sally shared a look, silently conferring, before Sally was the one to look away first.

 

“A mafia hitman sent to find out who is behind the destruction of these busts,” she explained in a clipped tone. “And probably also to track down the diamond of theirs that mysteriously went missing.”

 

That made Witherton clam up, snapping his mouth closed. He blinked rapidly a few times before repeating quietly, “A diamond?”

 

“Yes, the Hope Diamond a member of the Italian mob had secreted away in one of these plaster busts and sent to the United States,” Sherlock snapped, barging into the conversation. 

 

He treated Witherton to a careful, observant look. “You aren’t surprised that the mob used fake shipments to smuggle goods into this country. You’re only surprised that it was a diamond they were smuggling.”

 

“Interesting,” Lestrade commented curiously. “I’d like to know just how many shipments have come through this auction house with goods that were actually from the mob. Maybe these plaster busts weren’t the only fake items that passed through here you masqueraded as authentic and priceless.”

 

“Being the expert in European Works & Arts at this very prestigious auction house it probably wouldn’t be very hard for you to make that happen,” Sally said thoughtfully, staring at Witherton.

 

Witherton squirmed a little under Sally, Sherlock, and Lestrade’s attention, his gaze darting rapidly between the three of them.

 

It didn’t take long before finally he sighed loudly and all the hot air went out of him. “Fine, I’ll cooperate. Yes, I knew there was something inside the busts. That's why I went looking for them. And smashed two. Please I’ll tell you everything you want to know. Just, don’t tell my boss. Please.”

 

“We’ll see,” Lestrade answered vaguely. He drew the picture they’d found out of his pocket and held it up for Witherton to see. “Do you recognize this person?”

 

Witherton leaned forward to look closely at the picture. “No, I don’t think so,” he said, shaking his head. “But, I remember Carter and Lowe mentioning seeing someone hanging around outside the last few days. Someone that didn’t look like our usual clientele.”

 

“Can you get us access to your security footage?” Sally asked impatiently, reaching out and taking the evidence bag back from Sherlock. “Maybe we’ll see this mysterious person on it.”

 

“And we'll need to know where you were this morning,” Lestrade added tucking the photo away. “To make sure you weren't here for all of this.”

 

“The hitman’s been dead more than four hours,” John spoke up, stepping over. “And Witherton’s shoes don't match the footprints we found. He also doesn't have any bruises or defensive wounds from the struggle.”

 

“John's correct, Witherton may be a puppet of the mob and guilty of selling fake antiquities and smashing busts,” Sherlock confirmed, watching Witherton as he spoke to Lestrade. “But he wasn't the one to kill the hitman or smash this bust.”

 

“We’ll still have to confirm that,” Sally replied, “But we’ll keep that in mind.”

 

Anthea walked over from the other side of the room, holding a clipboard with papers in her hand. “I found something in these shipping records you’ll want to see.”

 

“Is that where you wandered off to?” Sally asked her with a slight grin, pulling out her handcuffs.

 

“Well I couldn't let you do all the work,” Anthea replied smartly with a grin. She held up the clipboard she was holding. “I found the recent shipping and sales records.”

 

Lestrade and Sally looked appropriately intrigued, even as Sally closed the handcuffs around Witherton’s wrists.

 

“And what was it you thought we should see?” Lestrade asked, ignoring Witherton’s protests at being handcuffed and ‘unfairly untreated as a criminal.’

 

“It took a little digging through all the other shipments that came into this auction house, but I managed to find other shipments that originated from the same place as those with the plaster busts,” Anthea explained, pointing at the few highlighted entries on the top page.

 

When she stopped talking instead of continuing, Lestrade waited a beat then prompted eagerly, “And?”

 

She lightly shrugged a shoulder, tilting her head, “The same return shipment address was listed for each one. ‘Il Falcone Maltese Shipping & Holding Company,’ located in Sicily, Italy.”

 

“Il Falcone Maltese?” Lestrade repeated, completely butchering the proper Italian pronunciation compared to Anthea’s impeccable accent.

 

“The Maltese Falcon,” John and Sherlock translated nearly at the same time. Then shared a smug look.

 

“What, like the movie?” Sally asked sounding confused.

 

Sherlock’s smugness fell away into confusion, looking blankly between the four of them. “What movie?”

 

He didn’t seem moved by the disbelieving looks Sally and Lestrade had turned on him. “What?”

 

“You don’t know The Maltese Falcon?” Lestrade asked, staring. “It’s a classic!”

 

John decided to step in before Sherlock felt uncomfortable enough to start slinging insults. To help he reached out and rested his hand on Sherlock’s arm. “Sherlock has a very limited familiarity with popular culture and classic films.” He turned his gaze on Sherlock. “We may have to resume our Bond night marathons.”

 

Sherlock’s response to that was a very familiar noise of disgust.

 

“So both shipments of fake reproduction busts came from this company, as well as many other shipments over the last year,” Anthea interjected again, drawing their attention back to her “Some as often as twice a month, other times there was roughly a month in between.”

 

“Let me guess, our friend here signed for each shipment and was responsible for the contents every time,” Sally affirmed, pulling lightly on Witherton’s arm she was holding and made the handcuffs jingle.

 

“I am in charge of all European Works & Arts that arrive at this auction house,” Witherton pronounced smartly. “Of course I was responsible for the shipments you’re discussing.”

 

“You do know you’re only deepening the hole you’ve dug for yourself,” Anthea asked him in a level voice, arching an eyebrow at him.

 

That made Witherton close his mouth again with an audible snap.

 

“Did you find out anything about this Maltese Falcon Shipping & Holding company?” Lestrade asked hopefully, taking the clipboard from Anthea and flipping through the pages.

 

“It’s a dead end, I’m afraid,” Anthea answered apologetically. “All I discovered was that it appears to be a shell company of some sort. But when I tried to dig deeper the trail went cold.”

 

“Should it really be so surprising that the Italian mafia uses a shell company named after a movie to smuggle things into this country?” Sherlock asked skeptically.

 

“Maybe Witherton can help us on that front,” Sally suggested sharply, giving Witherton a cold look. “Since you did say you would cooperate fully with us.”

 

“There’s an idea,” Lestrade said as if it’d just occurred to him. “Sally, why don’t you take Witherton and have him help familiarize you with what exactly he does here. Anthea, you take Sherlock and go review the security footage from last night. Maybe if we’re lucky we can get a clear shot of our second intruder.”

 

“Before we all go our separate investigative ways, I did discover one other important, essential detail,” Anthea announced, looking around at all of them.

 

“What would that be?” Sally was the one who prompted this time.

 

Anthea pointed a finger at the clipboard Lestrade was holding. “The other two busts in this last shipment have already been sold and sent off to the new owner as of last night.”

 

“That’s a bit of a problem,” Lestrade sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Did you find out where they were sent?”

 

“That’s impossible!” Witherton protested, apparently finding his voice again. “I never inspected and authenticated them. They shouldn’t be available for sale yet!”

 

“I guess your bosses decided they didn’t need you this time,” Sally commented with a faint smile.

 

“It sounds like this was a special, expedited case,” Anthea spoke over Witherton’s sputtering. “According to the sales records the last two busts were sold to the Italian consulate. They were sent over by courier yesterday evening.”

 

There was a long, heavy silence in the room while none of them spoke or even moved.

 

“Well, shit,” Lestrade muttered.

 

“The Italian consulate? How are we going to get to them now?” Sally asked then looked around at everyone for an answer.

 

“Hopefully we can use our good relationship with Italy and a little intergovernmental cooperation to smooth things over,” Lestrade answered on a sigh. “If we get their help then maybe we can get to those busts without any drama.”

 

“Another question,” John interjected since having the consulate involved wasn’t enough. “Does the other thief who snuck in, managed to kill a mafia hitman, and smashed one of the busts know where the other busts were sent?”

 

“That…” Lestrade said slowly, pointing a finger at him, “Is a good question. If he doesn’t, maybe we can get there first.”

 

“We should get on the phone to the consulate,” Anthea suggested, taking the clipboard back from Lestrade. “The sooner we make sure the busts are secure the less problems we’ll have.”

 

“Agreed,” Sally said with a firm nod. “But can we drop him off first?” She asked pointing at Witherton.

 

“No, I think he should come with us.” Lestrade announced with a glint in his eye. “He should see what his involvement with the mafia caused.”

 

Witherton looked aggrieved by this, screwing up his face into an unpleasant expression. “This was not part of the plan.”

 

“Yes, since criminals always stick to the plan,” Sally said sarcastically. “Come on, I’m taking you to cool your heels in the car. You can think about what you’ve done.”

 

“Wonderful,” Witherton muttered as Sally led him away back towards the double doors that led upstairs.

 

“I’ll get on the phone with the consulate, see if I can get in touch with someone who will help us secure their new acquisitions,” Lestrade announced, pulling his phone from out of his pocket. “I’m sure someone over there has an investment in them.”

 

“Are you still wanting me to go look at the security footage?” Anthea asked as Lestrade unlocked his phone and started typing on it.

 

“Yes, we’ll need a clear picture of the other man who was here. And to make sure he’s the same person as the one in the photograph the hitman had,” Lestrade confirmed, glancing up at the other three left in the room. “Maybe we’ll even be lucky enough to find out where he was going.”

 

“All right,” Anthea said agreeably. “Let me know when we need to leave, I’ll have my phone on.”

 

Lestrade simply nodded, preoccupied with what he was doing on his phone.

 

Anthea turned on her heel and started walking towards the set of doors leading to the other hallway. John and Sherlock shared a confused look, wondering what to do now.

 

“Sherlock, Doctor Watson, follow me,” Anthea called over her shoulder without breaking stride. “I won’t wait for you.”

 

Sherlock and John looked at each other then hurried after her, John at a quick pace while Sherlock followed not as quickly at his own pace.

________

When Anthea had learned that Sherlock had invited Doctor Watson to their crime scene, with Lestrade’s permission, she had been reluctantly willing to wait and see how it went.

 

The little she knew about Doctor Watson was all from the file Mr. Holmes had collected on him. Something she knew better than to tell Sherlock or Doctor Watson about. But it didn’t contain very much helpful information. 

 

She knew Doctor Watson and Sherlock’s acquaintance went back many years to when Sherlock had been involved neck-deep in Moriarty’s organization. They didn’t know when or how exactly the two of them had met. But seeing how Sherlock had recklessly broken out of prison when he thought Doctor Watson’s life in danger, she and Mr. Holmes suspected their connection went much deeper.

 

Being around the two of them now in the cramped space of the security room, Anthea found herself being allowed a front row seat to their interactions. When she had interacted with Sherlock before he had been engaged and cooperative but still distant. Yet now with Doctor Watson, Sherlock was smiling and chuckling and continuing the conversation.

 

After they’d arrived and greeted the security guard on duty at the cameras, Doctor Watson had gently suggested the man decide to go on his walkabout. Unsurprisingly the man had agreed, leaving the three of them alone in front of the two computer screens with a grand total of six views of cameras around the building. One on the entrance, one on the shipping entrance, one on what appeared to be the side entrance, one in each of the two auction rooms, and the final camera in the room they’d just come from with the shipping crate and dead body.

 

There wasn’t much activity happening on-camera at the moment, with the auction house being shut down while they were still actively investigating. So Anthea took charge and slid into the single chair, navigating to the recorded footage from overnight.

 

The footage took a few minutes to rewind back, the time and date stamps rapidly moving backward. Overhead Doctor Watson and Sherlock were bickering about how useful the footage would be and the problem with technology. She tried to ignore them, but honestly it was actually amusing.

 

On the screens the footage finally neared the time Doctor Watson had given for the hitman’s death. Anthea slowed the footage down until just before that time and set it to play. 

 

“Sherlock, Doctor Watson,” she called, raising her voice but not looking away from the screens. “If you would kindly leave off and instead direct your attention to the screens.”

 

“Sorry,” Doctor Watson replied, sounding regretful. Sherlock didn’t say a word.

 

On screen outside the auction house it was dark and quiet. The storage room was quiet as well and only lit by a dim emergency light.

 

For a few minutes nothing happened on screen and Anthea had the thought that maybe the cameras had been messed with again. Just like the last time.

 

Then Sherlock leaned in over her shoulder to point at the top left corner of the screen where the footage from the shipping bay was playing. “There, someone just came into view.”

 

Anthea moved the mouse to click on it and expand that footage to fill the screen. There was a moving truck parked outside in the shipping bay, and now visible on screen was a figure in black walking around the truck and towards the ramp that led up to the shipping entrance.

 

On her other side Doctor Watson leaned in closer to the screen. “It’s hard to see, but if that’s the thief he doesn’t have any experience with this. He’s not checking his surroundings, he’s not being discreet, and he’s not armed at all.”

 

Anthea took her eyes away from the screen for just a moment to glance up at him. “I thought you were a doctor.”

 

“I also served some time in the army,” Doctor Watson offered with a charming self-deprecating smile.

 

“Even given his involvement with the mafia, I doubt the skills of a low level lackey includes discreet assassinations. Otherwise our hitman would be out of a job,” Sherlock commented, eyes fixed on the screen. 

 

A moment later Sherlock announced, “He's gone inside now,” drawing their attention back to the screen. “Expand the view of the storage area.”

 

“Please,” Doctor Watson muttered under his breath. Anthea heard Sherlock sigh quietly before offering an insincere sounding, “Please.”

 

She expanded the screen anyway so all they could see was the storage area camera footage.

 

On the screen the exterior door at the top right corner opened as the man snuck inside. He stood by the door for several seconds, looking around the room, before walking to the nearest crate a few feet away.

 

They watched him struggle to lift the lid off the crate and peer inside. From the angle of the camera the man's back was to them and they couldn't see inside. But he didn't seem happy with what he was seeing.

 

“He doesn't know where the busts are,” Anthea realized, watching as the man left the first crate behind and strode over to the nearest one. “He'll have to look in most of them before he finds the right one.”

 

“He didn't plan this ahead of time. So why come after them now?” Doctor Watson mused aloud as on screen the man moved to another crate, looking more irritated by the moment. “What happened?”

 

After watching the screen for a few seconds Sherlock pronounced, “His employers have been in touch just recently and made their deep displeasure with his behavior known. They told him there was a new shipment coming, gave him a last chance. That's why he keeps touching his jacket pocket where his phone is, making sure it's still there.”

 

“So he decided to break in to get the busts now, and find the diamond to satisfy his employers?” Anthea asked just to confirm, sitting forward when the man on screen finally stopped in front of the right crate. “And knowing the mafia, probably avoid getting killed.”

 

The lid on this crate was half off already, propped askew across the top. They still couldn't see inside the crate, but the man was tossing around the foam packaging inside. Finally a moment later he pulled out a plaster bust from amongst the packaging.

 

“There it is,” Sherlock breathed, leaning forward again to watch as the man tucked one bust under his arm and continued rummaging inside the crate.

 

“What happened to the other two busts, aren't they inside?” Doctor Watson asked confused, looking between the two of them.

 

Anthea shook her head, “By this time they were likely already sent off to the Italian consulate by special expedient courier. That bust was the only one left behind.”

 

“Looks like he's learning that too,” Doctor Watson commented, crossing his arms. “And he's not happy about it either.”

 

That was an understatement. The man on screen had reached out and pushed the lid off the crate to fall onto the floor with what was probably a loud thud if the footage had had sound.

 

In a desperate action the man raised the bust above his head, like he was planning to smash it just like the others.

 

“What is he doing,” Sherlock hissed angrily under his breath. She felt him nearly vibrating with anxiety next to her.

 

Suddenly on screen the man froze for some reason, looking across the storage room towards the exterior door. Anthea panned the camera in that direction, only to see the new arrival.

 

“And there's our hitman,” she announced, toggling the mouse to zoom in slightly. “Well, he wasn't any more nice to look at when alive.”

 

“Why doesn't this thing have sound?” Sherlock complained, gesturing wildly at the screen. “We can't hear anything they're saying.”

 

Doctor Watson asked teasing as Anthea continued watching the screen, “What, I thought you could lip read?”

 

Sherlock didn't answer, but Anthea could feel the weight of his glare even when it wasn't directed at her.

 

“They're arguing about the busts, and the shipment,” Anthea told them, focusing on the screen and the men's mouths as she tried to tell what they were saying. It was hard since the thief seemed to be begging and the hitman was not saying much but it was so dimly lit in the room on screen. “All the usual. The hitman wants to know where the diamond is, the thief says he doesn't have it but will find it. And-”

 

On screen the hitman drew a gun from the inside of his jacket pocket and aimed it unerringly at the thief.

 

“That's not good,” Doctor Watson said, stating the obvious.

 

As the hitman slowly advanced on the frozen thief with the bust still gripped tightly in his hands, Anthea said, “We didn't find a gun in that room. Where did it go?”

 

On screen the hitman was standing only a few feet away from the thief, still aiming the gun and holding out his other hand for the bust.

 

In one desperate move the thief lunged forward and smashed the bust violently into the hitman’s face. The hitman stumbled backwards clutching at his face while in his other hand the gun fired, the shot going wide just before the weapon fell from his hand.

 

The thief ignored the gun, gripping the slightly cracked and blood coated bust in his hands. He stalked forward after the hitman as the other man stumbled backwards before forcefully hitting the crate at his back.

 

The hitman fell forward at the impact, and the thief took advantage to smash the bust into the back of the man's head.

 

Now dealt the deathblow, the hitman collapsed lifeless to lie on the concrete floor feet away from the crate.

 

The thief seemed to grasp the reality of what he'd done as he backed rapidly away from the body. He tore off the top page from the clipboard sitting on the table next to the crate then stumbled over to pick up the hitman's gun where it had fallen.

 

“Well that's where the gun went,” Doctor Watson observed quietly as the thief hid it in his pocket. “I'm not sure if he has the ability to actually fire it though.”

 

“That might not matter,” Sherlock replied. “He seems desperate enough to use it anyway.”

 

On screen the thief glanced quickly around the room before dashing towards the double doors leading to the inner hallway. From the corner angle view of the camera they had a side view of the thief. But nothing directly head on to confirm his appearance.

 

“Come on, look at the camera. Look at it,” Anthea commanded under her breath, closely watching the thief on the screen.

 

And finally they caught a break. Just as he pushed one of the doors open the thief turned to look around one last time… and happened to look directly at the camera.

 

“Got you,” Anthea pronounced triumphantly. She quickly stopped the footage at that exact moment then dug in her pocket for the phone.

 

“I'll take a picture and just send it to Lestrade and Sally. Then we can confirm ID and be on our way to the consulate.” Anthea explained as she pulled out her phone and unlocked it.

 

Sherlock shifted restlessly next to her. “I can spare you the waste of time.”

 

She heard him wrestle something out of his pocket, then blinked when she saw him holding the hitman's photo up next to the screen. “Where did you get that?”

 

“Sherlock,” Doctor Watson’s hissed admonishment was answer enough.

 

“As you can see, even with the poor quality of the photo and footage, this is obviously the same person,” Sherlock explained informatively, shaking the photo slightly. “This is the man we're looking for.”

 

“I agree with you,” Anthea said agreeably, and reached out to snatch the photo from him. “But you can't go around stealing evidence.”

 

“I feel like this might be the time to warn you that he has a habit of pickpocketing when bored,” Doctor Watson spoke up, his entire tone a sharp warning to Sherlock.

 

“I wasn’t bored,” Sherlock protested. “I just wanted a better look at it.”

 

“Still,” Anthea said and took a moment to snap a picture of their thief frozen on the screen. Then she pushed her chair back and walked towards the door.

 

“Come on then,” Anthea called over her shoulder as she opened the door. “We should head for the consulate.”

\------

After they reunited with Lestrade, who had finished his call but looked worse for it, and Sally, who was still babysitting Witherton and didn’t seem happy about it, it was a very short amount of time before they were on their way to the consulate.

 

Sherlock and John joined Agent Lestrade in his car while Donovan and Anthea followed after with Witherton as their unwilling passenger. It seemed that while he had been cooperative sharing his secrets of how exactly he helped the mafia pass goods through the auction house, Anthea and Donovan still wanted to squeeze him, so to speak, for more details.

 

Meanwhile in the car with Lestrade, the agent was schooling them on how to behave respectably inside the consulate since it was technically another country's sovereign soil and they were invited guests.

 

Sherlock sat forward from the back seat where he and John had been relegated to, and protested, “It isn’t like they had a choice. There's a dangerous criminal on his way there, and if they don't want anyone else dead or their property damaged they need to cooperate with us.”

 

“The whole point of us getting their cooperation is so we can beat the thief there and avoid anything else happening,” Lestrade pointed out, following the instructions his navigation system was giving him.

 

As he turned onto another street, glancing over his shoulder, Lestrade added a little warily, “And please don't mention that in front of the consulate officials. Even with the tense situation it took a bit of negotiating.”

 

“Politics,” Sherlock scoffed, sitting back in his seat and crossed his arms.

 

“It does happen,” John said unhelpfully and Sherlock turned his head slightly to stare at him.

 

John just shrugged his shoulder and said mildly, “At least they're letting us go in and take care of the problem ourselves.”

 

“About that,” Lestrade interrupted, using the rear view mirror to glance back at them. “Turns out that lucky for us they have an event tonight so they're closed to the public. But they want us finished as quickly as possible and without any damage so they can still have their event tonight. So, best behavior and no dramatics.”

 

Sherlock turned his head to stare out the window instead of making any promises. But he didn't hear John respond at all either. Which may have made him smile slightly.

 

A few minutes later Lestrade pulled over and stopped the car outside a fairly nondescript building on an upper east side street. The first floor was made of marble elaborately decorated with the three floors above made of brick. The only sign it was a consulate was a circular plaque above the door and the Italian flags waving slightly in the breeze.

 

“Here we are,” Lestrade announced, climbing out of the car. Sherlock and John followed his example, then the three of them paused to stand together on the sidewalk outside.

 

“Do we know how the thief could get inside?” John asked curiously. Sherlock remained quiet and let Lestrade answer the question as he studied the building himself.

 

“Honestly?” Lestrade said on a quiet sigh. “Too many ways.”

 

At the top of the marble steps past the marble pillars the carved wooden door with colored glass swung open and a man stepped out onto the top step.

 

Sherlock took in his wrinkled poorly tailored suit, bright colored bow tie, the creases around his eyes, and obviously forced smile, and sighed. “Oh no.”

 

“He looks a little too happy doesn't he,” John murmured quietly in Sherlock’s ear just before Lestrade hushed them and stepped forward.

 

“Hello, hello!” The consulate employee greeted happily, holding his hands out warmly. “Welcome, our friends from the FBI. Welcome to our humble consulate.”

 

“Thank you, very kind of you,” Lestrade replied, trying and failing to match the man's enthusiasm. “I called a few minutes ago and spoke to someone called a Signor Ugolotti. Is he-?”

 

The man's face fell for just a brief moment before the smile was affixed again. “I am afraid Signor Ugolotti is not available at the moment. He sends his regrets.” He stood up even straighter and gestured at himself. “I am Signor Saracini. Please let me know anything I can do to help you.”

 

“Well,” Lestrade began, trying to start moving towards the front door, “If you could show us what your security is like, we can find where our man will try to come in.”

 

“Yes, yes, of course,” Signor Saracini agreed eagerly, following Lestrade up the steps like an eager shadow. “I will show you. Please, please come in.”

 

Sherlock shared a look with John that confirmed John found the situation just as humorous as he did. They started slowly walking after Lestrade and the consulate representative. As they did Sherlock attempted to calculate just how soon after they entered the consulate could he and John sneak away.

 

“What about the busts he’s after?” John interrupted the Signor’s annoying babbling as they were waved through the front door. “Have they been put somewhere safe?”

 

“Yes, yes,” the Signor nodded agreeably, waving them into the very decorative front lobby. The door closed behind him and he turned to smile at them. “I believe Signor Ugolotti mentioned we are having a special event tonight. Our new purchases were meant to be the showcase of the new gallery we are opening. But it seems that is not to be. So we closed that gallery for the event tonight. No one is allowed in that area.”

 

Because that would be enough to put off a determined thief and murderer who had already killed someone over these idiotic useless busts. The only important thing about the two busts left was whichever of them may be hiding the diamond. 

 

“Well that's good,” Lestrade said encouragingly. But even in the short time Sherlock had known him he could tell the agent was not very trustful of this man. “And only approved staff are in the building right now?”

 

“Yes, yes, of course.” The Signor agreed, starting to walk down the hall past the front desk and further into the consulate. “We are very careful with who we allow into our little oasis here. Everyone is checked by security.”

 

“Excellent,” Lestrade said approvingly as they continued walking slowly down the hallway.

 

Sherlock decided it was a good time to tune out Lestrade and the Signor and focus on their surroundings instead. Besides it looked like John was paying enough attention for the both of them.

 

All the rooms they passed, carpeted and thoroughly decorated to celebrate Italian heritage, seemed to be reception and meeting rooms. Not where their thief would hide, especially in plain sight.

 

Then they walked out at the other end of the hallway into a large entrance hall with a checkered floor and marble walls. Off to one side there was a grand staircase leading upward roped off with a sign saying ‘no admittance.’ The other side of the room had large wooden doors opened to reveal a grand hall with tables and a stage.

 

Lestrade and the Signor moved to go inside the hall, but honestly the staircase was much more interesting. Before John could follow after them Sherlock reached out and snagged John's elbow.

 

“Wait,” Sherlock hissed quietly when John gave him a surprised look.

 

He waited until Lestrade and the Signor had passed through the doors to the hall before whispering to John, “We have some investigating of our own to do. Come with me.”

 

Sherlock started to turn away towards the staircase, but this time John pulled him back. “Sherlock, wait!” He hissed, glancing back towards the hall. “We can't just run off on our own in this place.”

 

“We’ll be fine,” Sherlock placated and tried again to lead John towards the staircase. But John was insistent and stayed in place.

 

So Sherlock sighed in exasperation and offered rapidly, “Donovan and Anthea will be here any moment. I'm sure that either or both of them will be wanting to check on the supposed security of the busts. It won't take long, and we'll be fine.”

 

John took a moment to think all of this over, but it wasn't long before Sherlock could see the determination on his face. “All right, but be careful. We aren't completely sure the man we're looking for isn't here already.”

 

Just because he knew John worried constantly about him for some reason, Sherlock didn't roll his eyes. “Yes, all right. Come on!”

 

He tugged John over to the staircase then, with a quick look around the room, stepped over the rope. John followed, having a little more difficulty climbing over the rope given his short stature.

 

Soon they were quickly walking up the staircase, keeping close to the wall. At the top they found themselves in a hallway, with several closed doors on each side.

 

Sherlock glanced quickly back and forth along the hallway then darted off to the right. He heard John follow after him, their footsteps quiet on the smooth floor.

 

The first few doors they opened along the hallway appeared to be used as storage rooms for the new gallery, filled with boxes and shipping material. 

 

After the third door with the same thing Sherlock started to get annoyed. The gallery where the busts were had to be up here somewhere. It made sense. The Signor said they were in the new gallery that was closed from the public. And this staircase had been plainly roped off.

 

“We’ll find it, all right, Sherlock?” John assured quietly from next to him. Sherlock could feel John's hand warm on his arm. “You're right, they're here.”

 

Sherlock didn't brush his hand off, but he did feel a little calmer now. Calm enough to see through his irritation and notice a door open at the far end of the hallway.

 

He tugged on John's arm then nodded his head in the direction of the door. John gave him a confused look that quickly cleared when he followed the direction of Sherlock's gaze.

 

“You think they're in there?” John asked in a hushed voice.

 

Sherlock just nodded his agreement and started walking as quickly but quietly as he could towards the half-open door. John followed after him, skipping a little to keep up.

 

When they were just outside the door Sherlock stopped and held up a hand for John to stop. John did stop, trying to look around Sherlock and through the half-open door as if he could see inside.

 

There was something strange about the number of doors in this hallway. They’d opened three doors along it already, and all of them were storage rooms. But at this end of the hallway there was one door at the very end and one door on either side all close together. It was just the door at the very end that was half open.

 

Sherlock waved a hand at the closed door to the right of the half-open one. “You go through there, I’ll go through that one. We move in at the same time.” He instructed in a hushed voice.

 

“No, Sherlock, no!” John commanded, trying to move in front of him to block his way. “What if he is in there? We don't have any way to defend ourselves!”

 

“He won't be,” Sherlock insisted shaking his head. “It's a very slim possibility the criminal beat us here. And think about it, John. In one of those busts is the Hope Diamond! You know how much that is worth, and we could be the ones to find it!”

 

John gave him a long, critical look. “I know money isn't important to you, Sherlock. You've told me enough times you don't care about money. And I don't believe you care about the diamond or even about the fame if we do find the diamond.” John leaned in closely. “So really, what is this about? Why are you so eager now?”

 

Sherlock paused a moment then said rapidly, “Never mind, it's not important. Let's just go in and look at those busts!”

 

He started to move towards the door but John reached out and pulled him back. “No, no walking off. Tell me what's wrong, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock let John pull him back but didn't look John directly in the eye. “Nothing. It's nothing. I just, I want to solve this case. I want to find the diamond.”

 

John looked at him for a long time, in that surprisingly knowing way he had. Finally John sighed and said quietly, “Closer. But still not entirely true.”

 

“I want to solve this case, John.” Sherlock insisted still in sotto voice. “I want to be successful again.”

 

“All right,” John said quietly with a solemn nod. “I’ll take that for now.” He turned to look at the set of three doors only feet away. “So I'll take the open door, and you take the one on the right.”

 

“What?” Sherlock questioned then found himself staring after John as the other man started walking towards the door. “John, wait!”

 

John didn't listen. He walked up to the half-open door and paused next to it, positioning himself right at the edge of the door frame near where the door was propped open.

 

Once he was there John turned and insistently gestured for Sherlock to post himself at the other door. Sherlock blinked at him but then decided it wasn't worth the time to argue. So he quickly hurried over and stood in front of the door to John's right.

 

John looked at him and raised his hand. He held up three fingers and silently counted down. Once he reached zero John turned to the door and in one swift move pushed it all the way open.

 

Half a second late Sherlock turned to his own door and pushed it open.

 

Through the door was a large gallery room, filled with empty pedestals placed around the room with other stands and boxes covered with sheets. It didn't look ready for the scheduled gallery opening that night.

 

Out of the corner of his eye Sherlock noticed movement on the other side of the room opposite from where John’s door would have led to. He turned his head to look and froze.

 

The man from the security footage picture and the dead hitman's photo was standing next to one of the only two occupied stands. Occupied by very familiar plaster busts. 

 

Luckily the man didn't seem to have heard Sherlock come in or John in the other room. He was busy lifting off the glass case around the bust, set it on the ground, and took the bust off the stand.

 

Sherlock took several steps forward trying to be as silent as possible. When he was closer to the man Sherlock called, mentally hearing John calling him an idiot, “Are you just going to continue smashing every bust until you find the diamond? That doesn’t sound like much of a plan.”

 

The sound of his voice startled the thief enough that he fumbled the bust held carefully in his hands. He managed to catch it again just in time then turned to stare at Sherlock. 

 

“Who- who are you? How did you get in here?” The man demanded in a strong Italian accent, looking wildly around the room as if he expected someone else to be there.

 

“I'm no one, just someone else looking for the diamond,” Sherlock explained, slowly moving forward to draw the man's attention. “Impressive you managed to track the last two busts here. I wasn't expecting that.”

 

“Why do you want the diamond? Why is it important to you?” The thief demanded, clutching the bust tightly to his chest. “I need it more. It is life and death.”

 

Sherlock glanced down at the new bulge visible in the man's jacket pocket. It took mere seconds to realize it was from the gun the man had taken from the hitman at the auction house.

 

Well, that wasn't good. Sherlock glanced sideways towards the room John had entered, noticing a small open archway between the two rooms. But John wasn't there yet. Where was he?

 

“Why do you need it? How can it be life and death?” Sherlock questioned as he waited, trying to get the man to talk.

 

Unsurprisingly the man did seem eager enough. “I need the diamond, otherwise my employers will kill me. They think I stole the diamond. That I ran away to this country with it.” His arms tightened even more around the bust. “But I did not! I hid it in a bust just like she told me. I just did not know which one. So I had to come.”

 

“Who is she? Who told you to hide it in a bust?” Sherlock demanded, stepping closer to the man. He was so close to piecing this entire case together, to finally solving it. He just needed a few more pieces of information.

 

His insistence must have come across as threatening since the thief went wide eyed and shifted the bust under one arm as he dug out the gun with his other hand and pointed it at Sherlock.

 

Sherlock watched him carefully, quickly calculating his chances if he tried to wrestle the gun or the bust away from the man. The outcomes he did come up with were not favorable for him at all.

 

There was movement off to his right, and Sherlock quickly glanced over that way to see John standing just inside the archway of the room. He was watching the man very closely, his gaze flickering between the gun and the man's face.

 

“You are part of this. You just want the diamond for yourself!” The thief accused, continuing to point the gun unsteadily at Sherlock. “You have been following me. You smashed the other busts I could not get to.”

 

While half-listening to the man's rant Sherlock caught John's eye and nodded slowly, giving John permission to carry out whatever plan he deemed best. He trusted John to have a successful plan with a positive outcome..

 

John nodded slowly in return and began slowly making his way across the gallery floor on surprisingly silent feet.

 

“No, I don't want the diamond at all,” Sherlock countered the thief’s accusations, stopping only feet away from the man. He held out his hands, trying to keep the man's attention. “And I haven't been following you. I was under the impression you were the only one smashing the busts.”

 

“No, you lie!” The thief insisted angrily, waving the gun around again. “You are trying to trick me. You betray me just like him. But I will not give you the diamond!”

 

John was more than halfway across the room now, getting closer every second to where Sherlock and the thief were standing. Sherlock just needed to keep the man distracted for a little longer.

 

“How do you know where the diamond is? It could be in either of the two busts left.” Sherlock inquired in honest curiosity. He pointed at the pedestal behind the thief where the last bust rested. “What if it's in there?”

 

The man turned slightly to look back at the pedestal, taking his eyes off Sherlock and shifting his aim of the gun.

 

John took that opportunity to take a few more steps then promptly tackled the thief. As John leapt and pushed him down to the ground the thief’s hold on the bust slipped. It fell from under his arm to smash into pieces on the hard ground. To prevent the gun from going off John pushed the man's arm away and upward, then twisted. The gun fell from the man’s hand as he cried out in pain.

 

Before Sherlock could blink again the thief was sprawled out on his stomach on the floor with John sitting on his back. The smashed bust was in pieces near the thief’s feet and the gun a few feet away. John had the man's arms twisted behind his back who didn't seem to be struggling at all.

 

“Excellent work, John,” Sherlock praised, smiling at John who never failed to impress him. He walked over and picked up the gun, unsurprised to discover that the safety was still on when he checked it.

 

“Excellent teamwork you mean,” John corrected him firmly, but with a grin of his own. “It's good to see we haven't lost our touch.”

 

“Of course not,” Sherlock insisted as he walked over, having a difficult time ignoring the growing warmth in his chest. He would never admit it aloud but he really had missed this.

 

As Sherlock knelt down next to the bust pieces and began poking through them John asked hesitantly, looking over at the door, “Shouldn't Lestrade or one of the other agents have come after us by now?”

 

“I imagine the Signor is doing his best to monopolize the Agents’ attention,” Sherlock answered, a little distracted by the smashed bust that didn't appear to be hiding the missing diamond. 

 

From out in the hall came the sound of multiple pairs of feet storming their way up the marble staircase.

 

“Here they come,” Sherlock declared, straightening to his feet again. “Lestrade must have finally seen through the Signor’s deception.

 

“Sherlock, you should put that gun back down before they come storming in.” John advised, shifting slightly so he was still securely holding the thief but in a better position for his leg.

 

Sherlock made a mental note to help John get rid of his problem with his leg as soon as possible. But he did set the gun back down on the floor close to where he'd found it.

 

A few seconds later the thunderous footsteps were in the hallway. Then Lestrade burst into the room gun drawn with his shouts of “FBI!” echoing in the rooms to either side by Anthea and Donovan.

 

But then Lestrade suddenly ceased his shouting and lowered his gun as he took in the scene in front of him. “Well,” he said simply, sliding his gun back into its holster.

 

“Kind of you to join us, Agent,” Sherlock quipped as he walked over to the stand with the very last surviving bust. “As you can see, John has caught the thief for you,” he said, waving a hand in John's direction.

 

“It was a joint effort,” John corrected, rising to his feet then hauled the thief up to stand beside him.

 

“Yeah, I can see that,” Lestrade said sounding a little bewildered. 

 

He started walking across the room to where John and Sherlock were. “Thanks. But you really shouldn't have done anything risky like that,” Lestrade said, and treated John to an unnecessarily firm look.

 

“The safety was on the whole time, and he didn't really try to defend himself,” John said, brushing off the remark as if his actions didn't matter. He passed the thief over to Lestrade with a gentle push easily enough.

 

Lestrade pulled out a set of handcuffs and tightened them around the thief's wrists with a practiced move. “We’ll take him back to the office and see if he's willing to talk.”

 

“Boss, the other two rooms are cleared,” Donovan announced from where she and Anthea were standing near the door to the room.

 

“I see Sherlock and Doctor Watson have been busy,” Anthea remarked mildly. 

 

Sherlock glanced over to her, ready to defend his and John's actions again. But then he realized she was actually smiling and maybe even approved. 

 

So he turned his attention back to Lestrade and tried to explain further. “I'm certain he's willing to talk to you, seeing as he confessed to John and me.”

 

“He confessed? To you?” Lestrade repeated in a way that Sherlock really hoped wouldn't become habit. “You do know the two of you aren't actually FBI agents?”

 

“Boss they did catch him in the same room as the last two busts and with a gun from the last crime scene,” Donovan pointed out being surprisingly helpful. “And we know that the diamond has to be in one of the two busts.”

 

“Actually,” Sherlock said, taking advantage of the moment to pick up the final bust. “It has to be in this one.”

 

Then without further ado he raised the bust above his head and tossed it to the ground.

 

It smashed on impact into pieces just like all the other busts. But this time, lying amongst the pieces of plaster was a very large, very shiny, deep blue diamond.

 

“Ah, as I suspected,” Sherlock pronounced, feeling very pleased with himself.

 

Lestrade, Donovan, and Anthea did not look as pleased. But when Sherlock checked John did look impressed so that was all right.

 

“That does cleanly take care of our missing diamond,” Anthea pointed out, walking forward to stop near the two piles of smashed busts. She pulled an evidence bag out of her pocket and used it as a makeshift glove to pick up the diamond. “So this is what caused all this trouble.”

 

“Six smashed busts, four break ins, months of work, and one dead bodies worth,” Donovan summarized sounding a little tired but still triumphant. 

 

She stalked over to where Lestrade was restraining the thief by his handcuffs and pointed a stern finger at the man. “We are going to pin you with murder by the way. You're going to go away for a long time.”

 

The thief just sighed and if possible his shoulders slumped even further with his head down.

 

“You may want to question the overly helpful Signor downstairs,” Sherlock advised, dusting the plaster dust off where it had gotten onto him. “I'm not sure if you caught on, but he-”

 

“Had a hand in all of this,” Lestrade finished for him with a nod. “We did catch on actually. Especially when he tried locking me in the security office.”

 

Sherlock definitely did not laugh at the image of Lestrade fighting the Signor over the door of the security office.

 

“Luckily we arrived in time to help lock the Signor in the office instead,” Anthea helpfully added to continue the story. “Then, seeing as the two of you ran off on your own, we hurried up here.”

 

“To come to our rescue, I suppose?” John asked, laughter audible in his voice.

 

“We tried,” Lestrade said but he was smiling.

 

Anthea tucked the three new evidence bags with two bust remains and the diamond in her bag and straightened up to her feet again. “Well, we have the diamond now. And our culprit. Well, culprits.” 

 

“A dirty consulate official, a pushover auction house employee, and a mafia lackey.” She smiled widely. “I'd say this has been a pretty successful day.”

 

“Don't close the book on this yet,” Lestrade warned, tightly gripping the thief’s shoulder. “We still have to have a conversation with this fellow first.”

 

“You may find these helpful Agent,” John offered, digging out a phone and a wallet from his pockets and handing them over to Lestrade. “I took them off him after I took him down.”

 

Lestrade took the phone and wallet from John and started looking over them with a slight frown.

 

“Well now we know your name. Andre Geppo, Italian citizen.” Lestrade read off the wallet John had given him. “Nice to meet you Andre.”

 

The thief made an indeterminable noise, glaring at some point in the distance on the floor.

 

Lestrade now turned to the phone, likely a burner phone Sherlock suspected. It unlocked easily with a swipe of a finger. After the moment it took to open his contacts, Lestrade gave a low whistle. “Wow, Andre. You have some interesting names in here. ‘Salvatore S.,’ ‘Nicholas S.,’ ‘Ignazio S.’” His brow wrinkled in confusion. “Lidia S.’”

 

Sherlock took advantage of the moment to advise, “You may want to ask him why he was after the diamond and smashing the busts in the first place.” He glanced over at the thief whose head had suddenly sprung up again.

 

Frowning a little at him Anthea said slowly, “You said he was trying to find the diamond because the mafia was getting upset with his inability to find it after it came into this country.”

 

“True,” Sherlock agreed, a little impatient at having to repeat himself again. “But it turns out that there is an even more powerful motivator than having your life at stake.”

 

“And that would be…?” Donovan prompted when he didn't continue right away.

 

“The mysterious ‘she’ he mentioned who told him to hide it in one of the busts,” John explained before Sherlock could. So apparently he had been listening at the door while Sherlock questioned the thief-slash-murderer. “She was his real motivation.”

 

“Wait,” Sherlock said, holding up a hand to silence them all as finally, finally something connected. He pointed a finger at Lestrade. “You just read two names from his contacts list. ‘Salvatore S. and Lidia S.’ As the FBI likely knows, Salvatore Sacietti is a high-level player in the mafia. What you may not know, is that Salvatore has a young daughter. Lidia Sacietti.” Sherlock turned a wide grin on the thief who was looking very alarmed now. “Really, Andre. Fell in love with the boss’s daughter? Tsk tsk.”

 

“Well,” Lestrade told the thief with fake cheerfulness, squeezing his shoulder tightly enough the man winced. “It sounds like we have a lot to talk about.”

 

From beside him Sherlock heard John whisper, for his ears only, “That was brilliant.”

 

“Witherton and Signor Ugoletti are downstairs,” Donovan said as she took the phone and wallet from Lestrade and put them in an evidence bag. She also walked over and picked up the gun to drop it inside yet another evidence bag. “But I'm sure we'll have enough room for Andre here.”

 

“Excellent, you'll be in good company.” Lestrade told the man with a friendly pat. “Sally, Anthea, if you could accompany our good man here downstairs and fetch the Signor while you're at it that'd be great. Sherlock and Doctor Watson and I will join you soon.”

 

“Right, boss,” Donovan confirmed, looping an arm around the thief’s and none too gently pulling him towards the door. “We’re on it.”

 

Anthea paused for a curious second, looking around at them all. She met Sherlock's gaze the longest before finally giving him a small nod. Then she turned and followed after Donovan out the door.

 

“Well it has been quite a busy day,” Lestrade declared with a satisfied sigh. He paused for a moment, inhaling slowly, and Sherlock briefly worried about what the man was about to say.

 

But then Lestrade raised his head again to fix him with a look that Sherlock didn't interpret correctly right away because he was only used to seeing it on John. With everyone else it had been tainted, combined still with that hint of disappointment or alienation.

 

The way Lestrade was looking at him now, was the closest anyone else had ever come.

 

“You did good today, Sherlock.” Lestrade said quiet but warm. “Even if you and Doctor Watson did run off on your own without backup.”

 

Before Sherlock could protest that it had still worked out all right, Lestrade continued, holding up a hand. “But we finally caught our culprits; all three even. And we found the diamond. I'd say that's impressive for just one day’s work.”

 

Sherlock watched, a little bewildered, as Lestrade reached out and rested a hand on his shoulder. “I know I've said this before,” Lestrade said, “but, we couldn't have done this without you, Sherlock. You were very impressive today.”

 

Lestrade gently squeezed his shoulder before letting him go. “I'm glad you decided to agree to the deal.”

 

Not giving Sherlock a chance to try and come up with a response to that, Lestrade turned around and started walking towards the door.

 

When the agent was already a few feet away John leaned in close to Sherlock and said quietly, confidently, “What did I tell you.”

 

“I'll see you two downstairs, you can ride with me back to the office,” Lestrade called over his shoulder, proving he was actually still listening.

 

Sherlock glanced over to John, not sure what else the Agent expected of them since they had just neatly solved the entire case.

 

“You didn't think you could get out of paperwork did you?” Lestrade asked curiously, turning around to give them a sly smile. “There's still reports to be written!”

 

John darted a look at Sherlock before shifting into the memory of a parade rest. Sherlock fought back a smile as John raised his chin and replied levelly, “I'm afraid I don't know what you mean, Agent Lestrade. I’ve been working a long shift at my clinic all day long.” He looked over to Sherlock. “But I can't wait to hear the whole riveting story from Sherlock when I see him later.”

 

“What-?” Lestrade asked looking in confusion between the two of them.

 

Sherlock quickly jumped in before Lestrade could finish the question. “Yes, after all I've been the one consulting on this case with you all along. You wouldn't want to bring in anyone else.”

 

Lestrade was silent, and for a second Sherlock was afraid he was going to argue with John about this. So Sherlock drew himself up to his full height, set his jaw, and readied himself to fight Lestrade.

 

But then Lestrade slowly smiled and nodded. “All right,” he agreed. “Fair enough.”

 

Taking the chance Sherlock quickly decided, “I’ll write my report tomorrow morning, as soon as I start. And before you say no, my memory of the events today and my logical process will not be hampered at all by the slight delay. My report will be exactly the same whether I write it today or tomorrow.”

 

Lestrade treated him to a long, searching look that Sherlock did his best to withstand. Finally Lestrade nodded his agreement. “Okay. But you’d better be in the office bright and early on time.”

 

“I will.” Sherlock promised.

 

“Good then,” Lestrade declared and turned around again to resume his walk towards the door. “I’ll see you in the morning, Sherlock. Thanks for your help, Doctor Watson.”

 

“My pleasure,” John called as the agent disappeared into the hallway.

 

Then John turned to Sherlock and said quietly with a smile, sliding his hands into his pockets, “Thanks for letting me in on this. It was… fun.”

 

“My pleasure,” Sherlock answered honestly, feeling himself smile in return. “What you did… it was good.”

 

“You're welcome,” John said in response to what Sherlock was really trying but failing to say. “I'll see you at yours in a bit.”

 

“I'll ask Mrs. Hudson if she can try and scrounge something up for us,” Sherlock offered, walking with John towards the hallway. He’d offer to try and make something himself but John was well aware of his misadventures in the kitchen.

 

“Sounds good to me,” John told him as they passed into the hallway. “I'm looking forward to it.”

 

\---

 

Sitting in the back of the taxi on his way back to Mrs. Hudson's, Sherlock found himself staring absently down at the phone in his hand.

 

Since he'd left the Italian consulate and parted ways with the FBI agents and John, who had taken his own taxi, his phone had been ringing every few minutes. It said it was an unlisted number, but Sherlock knew well-enough who it was. He just didn't know how Mycroft had already gotten his new phone number.

 

Speak of the devil, the phone started vibrating again in his hand. Sherlock ignored it, just like the others, and turned to look out the window.

 

As he'd waited for his taxi Anthea had paused next to him, hanging back from where her fellow agents were gathered by their cars. He hadn't been sure if she would say anything, or if she was waiting for him to say something.

 

But then, after a soft intake of breath, Anthea had told him quietly, “Lestrade was right, you did a very good job today.” She turned to give him a soft smile. “But I wouldn't expect any less.”

 

Before he could thank her, or respond, Anthea was walking away from him. But then she paused long enough to call over her shoulder, “And if you and your brother actually spoke to each other you'd find he felt the same.”

 

Well, what could he say to that. He knew his brother would never say something so sentimental. The very idea was ridiculous.

 

The ride to Mrs. Hudson's didn't take much longer. Before long the taxi had pulled up outside his new residence and Sherlock climbed out from the backseat.

 

As Sherlock paid the taxi driver he heard the sound of the front door opening. Once the taxi took off down the street he turned around to find Mrs. Hudson standing on the top step.

 

“Well,” she said smiling as he walked up to greet him. “It looks like you've had an exciting day.”

 

“It was that,” Sherlock agreed, pausing next to her on the top step. For some illogical reason he spontaneously decided to lean forward and kiss her lightly on the cheek.

 

Mrs. Hudson laughed in response, which was definitely a good thing, then lightly slapped him on the arm as he brushed past her and entered the house. “Oh, you.”

 

He paused just inside the door, waiting for her to step back inside. 

 

After Mrs. Hudson closed the door behind them she turned to fix him with a scrutinizing look. The elegant dress she was wearing was slightly ruined by the slippers and robe she had on. But Mrs. Hudson was still a picture.

 

Finally she nodded and moved forward to loop her arm through his. As she lead him further into the house towards the dining room, Mrs. Hudson told him, “You look like you could do with a good home cooked meal. Lucky for you the food I made is just about ready.”

 

“Very lucky for me,” Sherlock agreed, willingly letting her lead him. “And actually, John said he would drop by later. So maybe-”

 

“Not your mother, dear,” Mrs. Hudson scolded with very little force. “But I could maybe scrounge something up later for your nice doctor friend.”

 

“You're the best, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock told her completely heartfelt, lightly squeezing her hand on his arm. 

 

He didn't know how he had found Mrs. Hudson at exactly the right place at the right time, but he was very grateful for it. It made him cautiously optimistic that maybe this new life of his, this life he had been able to choose for himself, could last. Especially now there were apparently people watching out for him.

 

\------

(Stay tuned next week! (hopefully) )


	5. Will the Real Miss Jones Please Stand Up (Part One)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the daughter of a billion dollar company CEO on his deathbed disappears completely from her daily life, yet still maintains an online presence, the White Collar team is tipped off by her suspicious boyfriend.
> 
> Aka In which blood is not in fact thicker than water and money is a much more vicious motivator than love. Both facts that lead to painful betrayal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's a bit delayed, but here is Episode five of my White Collar/Sherlock fusion! This will be another two parter, with this part being part one. Hopefully part two will follow soon!
> 
> Thanks as always to PipMer who continues to put up with me while doling out wonderful advice and lending a ear.
> 
> Hope everyone enjoys, thank you for reading, kudos and comments appreciated as always :)

Sherlock slowly came awake to find his face buried in his pillow to try to get away from the light pouring in through the window and the horrible smell of coffee hovering in the air.

 

There was only one person who would dare make coffee in his home. And who of course was already awake.

 

Sherlock groaned and flopped over onto his side, fighting to regain the elusive pull of sleep. But apparently he didn't have a choice anymore.

 

Especially now that John, who seemed to have a sixth sense about these things, was making an extra loud racket in the kitchen with pots and pans and other things.

 

Sherlock sighed loudly then reluctantly sat up in his bed. The bedroom was down the hall and behind a door from the kitchen and living area, supposedly, so John must be very determined to rouse him.

 

He shuffled to the edge of his bed, tugged his robe off the closest bedpost, and stood up for his feet to meet cold floor. Hissing quietly Sherlock slowly padded his way to the door then down the narrow hallway that lead to the living area.

 

As Sherlock got closer there was suddenly a lull in the clattering of pots and pans. He noticed the door at the end of the hallway was open so Sherlock wrapped his robe tighter around him and called out, “You'd better have made more than just that swill!”

 

Just a foot or so from the door he heard John laugh and call back, “Yes, I remembered your strange hatred for coffee. So I started heating some water for you.”

 

“It's not strange.” Sherlock denied. Then added, “Thanks for going to such trouble for me.” He shot John a smile as he walked into the room.

 

John was standing near the stove with two mugs sitting on the counter. There was a coffee pot next to them carefully wrapped in a towel to keep it warm. And a kettle heating on the stove. John was also wearing the extra set of slightly oversized clothes Mrs. Hudson had rummaged up when they'd realized how late it had gotten last night.

 

John didn't look up as Sherlock passed nearby to collapse into the closest chair at the table. There was a bowl of fruit in the middle of the table, probably thanks to Mrs. Hudson and/or John. After a close inspection Sherlock reached out and picked out an apple.

 

“I'm also making toast and eggs, and you're going to eat them,” John called over the sound of eggs sizzling in a pan.

 

“You're assuming a lot, taking control of my kitchen,” Sherlock replied instead of answering. He leaned back in the chair and started on the apple. “You didn't have to sleep on the hide-away you know.”

 

“It's Mrs. Hudson's kitchen actually, I'm sure she wouldn't mind,” John said, reaching over to a drawer and pull out a spatula. “It was too late to go home, and Mrs. Hudson has done enough for me.”

 

Still munching on the apple Sherlock offered, “I'm sure she would have had a better option that wouldn't aggravate your shoulder.”

 

From the way John's constant stirring stopped and how very still he went that apparently wasn't a good thing to bring up. “My shoulder’s fine, Sherlock,” John bit out, ignoring the kettle as it started steaming.

 

Sherlock glanced to the kettle that was still steaming insistently. He hadn't meant to upset John, he was just disappointed John's shoulder was still bothering him. So as a peace offering Sherlock slowly stood up and said, “Your coffee looks ready. I can make my own tea.”

 

John gave a sharp nod, acknowledging, and moved to the side to fix his coffee.

 

They worked in silence as Sherlock made his tea (luckily Mrs. Hudson had left her own stash) and then finished making their breakfast. John didn't trust him with the eggs but Sherlock was allowed to make toast.

 

In the middle of enjoying their breakfast with tea and coffee sitting mostly in silence at the kitchen table, a phone started ringing nearby.

 

Sherlock paused, raising his head to look around and try to pinpoint where the annoying sound was coming from. Across the table John continued eating, pausing only long enough to say, “That's yours. It's probably your FBI handler.”

 

Sherlock dropped his utensils onto the plate with a loud clatter then forcibly pushed his chair back. “What could he possibly want? I said I'd be in on time right away in the morning.”

 

As Sherlock spun away to stomp over to where he'd left his coat John called, “He's probably checking in to make sure you remembered. And to see if you're on your way.”

 

“How insufferable,” Sherlock muttered, digging a hand into one of the pockets of his coat.

 

He pulled out his phone which had now stopped ringing, and sure enough there a notification for a missed call from Agent Lestrade. Sherlock dismissed the notification and unlocked his phone to open his messages.

 

Without waiting for Lestrade to leave a voicemail, Sherlock opened a new text message and rapidly typed out, “It isn't necessary to check up on me. I will be at your offices just as I promised, on time. SH.”

 

Sending off the text Sherlock dropped his phone into the pocket of his robe and walked back to the table. He picked up the piece of toast he'd been nibbling on and told John, “Work calls, it seems.”

 

Taking a bite Sherlock set the toast down again on the plate then offered, sounding as casual as he could, “Feel free to stay as long as you want. I'm sure Mrs. Hudson wouldn't mind.”

 

John set down the still steaming mug of coffee he’d been holding in both hands and gave him a look. “I have work too, you might remember. My shift at the clinic starts soon.”

 

Sherlock considered that for a moment, taking a sip of the last dregs of his tea. “But… you will stay by your phone? Just in case I need you.”

 

John smiled just a little, but it was enough. He picked at his eggs with his fork and said, “Of course, I always keep it on.”

 

“Good,” Sherlock declared before setting his now empty mug down on the table. “I'll get ready then.”

 

He quickly turned and walked over to the door leading back to his room. From behind him Sherlock heard John laugh and rustle the newspaper as he unfolded it.

\----

Roughly a half later Sherlock was finally ready. In the time it had taken him to dress and make himself presentable, Lestrade had texted twice. But Sherlock didn't respond to either since they were completely unnecessary anyway.

 

He checked himself one last time in the mirror, thankful again for Mrs. Hudson's kindness for even having these clothes. Then, satisfied with what he saw, walked out of his room and back down the hallway to the main room.

 

John was, unsurprisingly, still in the same chair reading the newspaper and drinking his coffee. He barely glanced up as Sherlock walked back in, but there was a steaming mug at the place where Sherlock had been sitting.

 

Smiling to himself, Sherlock walked over to it and took a careful sip.

 

“I'll probably be by later after my shift,” John mentioned conversationally. “I promised Mrs. Hudson I would help her with a few things around the house.”

 

Sherlock laughed around his bite of toast. “Don't let an older woman take advantage of you, John.”

 

“I don't mind,” John said with a slight shrug of his shoulder. “It's the least I can do.”

 

“Right,” Sherlock commented uncertainly. If John wanted to help Mrs. Hudson with boring chores it was up to him. At least it meant Sherlock wouldn't be dragged into it.

 

He walked over to his coat and shrugged it on, then wrapped the scarf around his neck just in case. Phone, ID, and key in his pocket, Sherlock turned around to face John again.

 

“I'm off,” he announced, even though he knew it wasn't necessary.

 

But John still turned in his chair to look at him and send him off with a warm smile. “Take care of yourself.”

 

Sherlock managed a smile in return and slipped out the door.

\---

By his careful planning Sherlock had meant to be at the FBI offices exactly when he had told Lestrade he would be. But then the taxi he’d taken was driven by the city’s slowest and most obstinate driver, who for some reason wouldn't listen to Sherlock's route suggestions even when they would avoid traffic.

 

So by the time he entered the building, took the proffered temporary badge from the guard, and rode the elevators up to the correct floor he was late.

 

But Sherlock made sure to not appear rushed or in a hurry as he pushed through the doors. He didn't want Lestrade or the other agents to judge him.

 

At first glance around the room he didn't see anyone he recognized. There were a few agents scattered around the desks on the office floor, but Sherlock didn't know any of them.

 

He stopped just past the doors, considering what to do. Then he decided that instead of waiting out here, exposed, he'd go wait for Lestrade in the man's office.

 

Sherlock was nearly to the closed door of Lestrade’s office, a state that could easily be changed, when the door to the conference room next door opened. He half-turned, acknowledging the sound, only to see Donovan walking out.

 

She gave Sherlock a second look after realizing it was him, and offered a faint smile. “Good morning, Holmes. It's good to see you've decided to come back for a second day.”

 

“Well, I couldn't leave you all on your own,” Sherlock replied, finding conversation with her easier than it had been yesterday. “You'd be lost without me.”

 

“You say that like it wasn't teamwork that helped us solve the case yesterday,” Donovan answered in a slight jibe. “Though you did really help us. So, since I didn't say it yesterday, thank you.”

 

Sherlock blinked for a long moment before saying carefully, “You're welcome. It was… interesting.”

 

That coaxed a smile out of Donovan. “Good to hear that.” She glanced out at the floor below them of desks. “If you're looking for Greg he’s not in yet. Something about traffic.”

 

“After living in this city for so long he should be used to traffic by now,” Sherlock commented, shaking his head. He didn't know exactly how long Lestrade had been in New York, just that the man wasn't a native but he'd been here long enough to acclimatize. And everyone knew traffic was a daily struggle.

 

“Not to mention the GPS system built into his car,” Donovan agreed in good cheer, smiling still. 

 

After a pause Donovan suggested helpfully, “Since you have time you might want to finish your statement from yesterday. Greg likes to hit the ground running in the mornings so you might not get another chance. The conference room is empty if you want to use it.”

 

“Thank you, I may do that actually,” Sherlock decided with a nod, and started moving towards the door to the conference room. It might do him some good to set aside some time on his own for thinking before this day of casework started.

 

But then he stopped and turned back to Donovan who was still standing along the aisle. “Er, what exactly does writing a statement entail?”

 

\---

 

Greg hurried through the front doors of his office cursing under his breath at the idiotic drivers in the city. He had his briefcase in one hand and an already empty travel mug in the other. His tie wasn't tied correctly because for some reason he could never get it to work even when looking in the mirror, and he hadn't had time to freshen up before rushing out the door.

 

His presumption that he still looked alright was promptly destroyed by the wide-eyed look of worry Sally greeted him with as he passed her desk. He tried to keep walking past but she quickly got out of her chair and circled around it after him.

 

“Boss, are you alright?” Sally asked in a hushed voice, catching up to him.

 

“Fine, Sally,” Greg answered more snappily than he'd meant to. “It's just been a bit of a morning already.”

 

She followed him up the stairs persistently, even as she offered, “I'll go make a fresh pot of coffee. I think we all could use some.” When he paused in front of his door Sally reached out and gently tugged him around to face her. “Here, let me fix that.”

 

Greg sighed but allowed her to reach out and fix his tie. She was better at tying the damn thing than he was, and he trusted her not to choke him with it. Still, with her hands close to his neck Greg asked cautiously, “Is Sherlock in yet? I texted him multiple times but he didn't respond to any of them.”

 

Sally laughed, finishing fastening his tie. “Don't worry, you're not the only one defeated by traffic, boss. He came in about a half hour ago.” 

 

She pulled away from him and gave a satisfied nod. “He’s in the conference room next door finishing up his statement. Or that's what he said he was doing, but I haven't heard any noise from him since.”

 

Greg glanced over at the closed door to the conference room next door, curious. “I'd better go check on him. Would you mind getting that coffee you mentioned? I'll owe you.”

 

“Well in that case I might as well go to the shop downstairs to get them,” Sally teased, holding out a hand and grinning at him.

 

Greg fished out his wallet from his pocket and handed over a twenty. “Alright, here. Get a treat for yourself too. Oh, and something for Sherlock.”

 

Sally closed a fist around the bill and pushed her hand into her pocket. She wrinkled her nose then explained, “Apparently he doesn't drink coffee. He called it vile, undrinkable swill.”

 

“Then don't get coffee for him,” Lestrade told her patiently, then turned Sally around and pushed her towards the door.

 

When he was satisfied she was on her way Greg left his office door behind and walked over to the conference room. He knocked quickly on the door then turned the doorknob and pushed it open.

 

Sherlock was sitting at the far end of the conference room slouched down in one chair and with his feet propped up on the back of another. His expensive coat was carefully folded over another chair nearby. He didn't appear to react to Greg's entrance, he was too focused on whatever he was speed typing out on his phone.

 

Greg cleared his throat and pushed the door closed behind him. “Sherlock?”

 

The boy jumped in his chair, his feet slipping off the back as he struggled upright. “Lestrade! I didn't know you were in.”

 

“I just got in,” Greg explained, slowly walking around the table towards the boy. “I thought you were working on your statement in here.”

 

Sherlock waved his hand airily, locking his phone and setting it on the table. “I’ve already finished it. You'll find it in your inbox once you check your email.”

 

“Oh, great,” Greg managed to say, a little taken aback. He had expected a bit more of a fight with Sherlock to get the boy to actually finish his statement. But apparently not. “Thanks.”

 

Sherlock waved his hand again, distracted, for some reason still not looking at Greg. 

 

When Greg stopped next to his chair and decided to perch himself on the window ledge instead, Sherlock commented quietly, “I did say I would finish my statement.”

 

Greg thought about that for a long moment before saying, just as quiet and honest, “And I appreciate you doing that.”

 

Just then the door to the room burst back open, startling Greg.

 

Anthea stepped inside, looked over at them, and announced, “There's a teenage boy asking to talk to a case agent coming up now. He's been waiting down in the lobby since 7am.”

 

“Well he did his homework,” Greg commented, impressed. This teenage boy must be very determined to get their help if he actually researched the FBI methods. Most teenagers had very different things on their mind.

 

Greg pushed off the ledge to stand on his feet again then walked over to nudge Sherlock out of his chair. “Come on, let's go see what he has to say.”

 

“Sally left your coffee in your office,” was Anthea’s parting gift as she flashed a smile and turned around. 

 

Walking out of the conference room she added before disappearing from view, “And I made sure she got your favorite tea, Sherlock. It's there as well.”

 

“Thank you, I suppose,” Sherlock muttered under his breath, but Anthea was already gone.

\----

Sitting in his office next to Sherlock with an anxious teenage boy clutching a thick file to his chest was a bit of a surreal experience.

 

He'd never had anyone so young show up in his office before, let alone bring him a case. He had spoken with witnesses or interviewed friends or family during cases plenty of times, but the White Collar division dealt mainly with corrupt CEO’s, high-level fraud, the more flashy class of criminals, and con men. Not teenagers with no criminal history and who looked like he was going to a fancy dinner afterwards.

 

The boy had refused an offer of anything to drink, choosing instead to sit out on the edge of his chair hugging the file and tapping his fingers anxiously. Greg had chosen to relax comfortably in his chair sipping his perfectly made coffee and let the boy try to collect his thoughts.

 

Sherlock didn't appear to share Greg’s patience. He was sitting forward in his chair, his paper cup of tea forgotten in one hand as his other tapped out a rhythm on his leg. Every time Greg glanced over at him Sherlock's gaze was focused intensely on the boy. Which probably wasn't helping with the boys anxiousness.

 

“So your name is Sam Townsend?” Greg prodded, leaning forward to set his coffee on his desk next to the keyboard. “I see you brought a file with you, we'd like to see it whenever you're ready.”

 

“Right, yeah,” The teenager agreed with a jerky nod. He slowly unfolded his arms from around the file and set it down carefully on his lap. Then he reached out and started to lift the cover.

 

“Who are you so worried about?” Sherlock blurted out, wrapping his hands so tightly around the cup it started folding in on itself. “Not a family member, but someone else you're very close to. Someone you care deeply enough about to reach out to the FBI, of all things. A desperate action.”

 

Sam stared in wide-eyed shock at Sherlock, his face gone pale. He glanced questioningly over at Greg, fingers white around the folder. “It's, it's my girlfriend. Violet. How, how did you know?”

 

Sherlock opened his mouth, probably to explain whatever he'd observed off Sam. But then Greg was surprised to see him close his mouth and lean slightly back in his chair, relaxing his grip on the cup. “It was obvious,” was Sherlock's only explanation.

 

“Oh, well you're right.” Sam replied still looking a little confused. He opened the folder and picked up the top photograph. “I'm really worried about her. She hasn't come to school in weeks and I haven't heard from her at all.”

 

Greg took the photograph from Sam when he handed it across the desk, but didn't look at it. Instead he asked, because it didn't feel right misleading the boy, “Sam, have you tried contacting the police? Or filing a missing person's report? If she's been gone that long the police should absolutely look into it.”

 

“He's tried multiple times, but they wouldn't listen,” Sherlock spoke up knowingly from his chair, contributing again. “What,” he turned his full attention back on Sam, “they didn't have time to try and find just another missing teenage girl?”

 

“No, not exactly,” Sam replied without correcting him or looking as intimidated by Sherlock this time. “They said they couldn't look into it, it was above their pay grade.” 

 

“‘Above their pay grade’?” Greg repeated, wracking his mind for why the police would refuse to take a case of a missing girl. There shouldn't be any reason, or excuse, for that.

 

“Yeah, ‘cause of who her dad is? And his condition?” Sam explained, confused by Lestrade’s reaction. “It's been all over the news.”

 

Greg and Sherlock had a momentary shared look of confusion before Sherlock said, “I'm afraid you'll have to tell us. Since apparently it is essential information neither of us know about.”

 

“Right,” Sam said slowly, but dug a hand into his pocket to pull out a smartphone. He unlocked it, typed a bit, then turned the screen so they could see. “There, that's one of the nicer ones.”

 

Greg leaned forward, squinting at the small text on the bright screen. He tried reading the article Sam was showing them, but Greg gave up instead of admitting he might need glasses. 

 

Sherlock, the bastard, was able to read it easily. “Violet Jones and her father Alan Jones pictured in their uptown residence. Alan is of course the CEO and founder of New York's top investment firm. Alan Jones is also known for his philanthropic spirit with important causes around the city. Violet, his sole heir, will soon inherit the company and its fortune on her next birthday due to his recent health crisis, which has lately taken a turn for the worse. For now COO Marcus Ledman and the board of directors are running the company's day to day activities.”

 

“So your girlfriend's father is Alan Jones, the CEO of one of the top companies in the city? Is that why you're here? You think something happened to her because of him?” Greg asked, reaching out to scroll back up to the picture of father and daughter. He understood now why the police hadn't wanted to get involved, but if the girl really was in trouble that shoudn’t matter.

 

“That article does paint a very nice picture of Mr. Jones and Ms. Jones,” Sherlock said, sitting back in his chair. “While also being informative yet sappy.”

 

“Of course that's why,” Sam insisted looking distraught. “First her dad gets sick then Violet disappears and I can't find her. Something is wrong.”

 

“That's why you have to find her. You're my last hope.” Sam pointed at the photograph now in Greg's hand. “That's the most recent photo I have of her.”

 

Greg now switched his attention to the photograph Sam had handed over. It was a picture of Sam and Violet in front of a fountain in a courtyard, Sam standing with an arm slung over Violet’s shoulder pulling her in against him. Violet was grinning happily, her arms wrapped around Sam’s waist.

 

The girl looked vaguely familiar, but with her brown hair, pale blue eyes, and pale skin she looked like any other teenage girl. There was a silver necklace with a horseshoe charm around her neck, but that was common enough.

 

Sherlock leaned over to get a better look at the photos, while still carefully keeping out of Greg's personal space.

 

“We’ve known each other since freshman year of high school,” Sam explained, gesturing at the second photo he'd handed over. It was of them in a hallway of lockers from several years ago. They still looked happy. “We met in homeroom and always had classes together each year. ”

 

“High school sweethearts,” Greg commented approvingly, having fond thoughts of his own romantic experiences in high school. “You must know each other pretty well then.”

 

A fond smile crept across Sam’s mouth, the worry lines smoothed away for the moment. “Yeah, we spent a lot of time together. As much as we could. It was always great being with her.”

 

“Violet Jones, currently seventeen but turning eighteen in four months. Born in August. Leo. Favorite color is purple. Favorite food is apparently corn dogs? Questionable choice. Enjoys… what on earth is ‘mocking’?”

 

Greg had turned a few seconds after Sherlock started talking to see him sitting upright in his chair reading from the phone in his hand. Once Sherlock finished Greg asked, confused, “Where are you getting that from?”

 

“Apparently like many of her generation Violet enjoys documenting her life on social media sites. She posts on facebook, twitter, or instagram at least once every hour,” Sherlock explained, turning his phone around to show them the facebook page he was looking at. “Most of it is pure tediousness.”

 

“Everyone does it, and Violet wasn't afraid of speaking her mind,” Sam jumped in defensively, moving to the edge of his chair. “She posted whatever she wanted about whatever she was thinking about.”

 

“Apparently,” Sherlock drawled, using a finger to scroll on his phone. A few seconds later he frowned and said , “Or at least she was until several months ago.”

 

Sam nodded fiercely. “That's when things started to get strange. I knew her dad was sick, and they didn't think he'd get better. But I guess he got really bad a few months ago and they thought he didn't have much time left. Weeks maybe.”

 

Greg frowned, rubbing his chin with his hand. “With news like that it's understandable she would become upset. She probably had other things on her mind besides social media.”

 

“Upset is an understatement. I hadn't ever seen her so broken-hearted.” Sam started twitching, casting his gaze downward to lock onto the photograph of him and Violet. “She started breaking into tears over almost anything, seemed sad all the time, and skipped some days of school. She didn't talk a lot, spent a lot of time researching her dad's disease.”

 

“And of course you were the supportive boyfriend, a constant shoulder to cry on,” Sherlock drawled from behind the screen of his phone. “She must have been very grateful to have you around.”

 

Sam shrugged a shoulder in a self-deprecating motion. “I just wanted to help her. I knew she was having trouble handling her dad getting sick. Especially since her mom split a long time ago then her stepmother and stepsister came into the picture a few years back. But she still felt like it was just her and her dad.”

 

“There was a stepmother and stepsister around for this?” Greg asked, interested in this new information. “How did they feel about him getting sick?”

 

“Dunno,” Sam said, shrugging again. He picked out another photograph from his file and handed it over. “Violet didn't get on very well with either of them. She tried at first but I don't think they did. Violet said they never really felt like a real family again.”

 

Greg took the photograph from Sam and held it out between him and Sherlock so they could both see it. Not that it was a very informative photograph; just a middle-aged woman with bleached blond hair, tan, expensive dress, forced smile, and a girl younger than Violet with brown hair similar in color to Violet’s, green eyes, same forced smile, and also expensive dress. In between them was Violet, with a forced smile of her own and arms crossed, wearing jeans and a t shirt.

 

“It doesn't look like they're very happy, no,” Greg commented fighting back a laugh. He had seen a lot of family pictures much more cheerful than this one, even ones with estranged family members. “When is this from?”

 

“A year or so ago?” Sam replied not sounding very sure of his answer. He went to take the photograph back but Sherlock snatched it out of Greg's hand. “Her dad was set on them trying to get along and become a family. So he kept setting up family outings for them to do together.” Sam shook his head with a small smile. “Pretty sure they all hated it. Though Violet pretended she didn't.”

 

“But then her dad became deathly ill recently, and their pretend family fell apart,” Sherlock summarized with an impatient bite to his voice. “It would be hard enough on a real family. With a pretend family everyone's motives become very clear.”

 

Greg idly wondered what had made Sherlock so jaded, although he didn't really know much about Sherlock's family except that he and Mycroft didn't get along very well. But now wasn't the moment. “What happened next, you mentioned things getting strange?”

 

Sam nodded slowly, looking down at the folder open on his lap. “At first she was really upset. I think she took a while to get used to the idea she was losing her dad. But then, I don't know, all she talked about was her dad's disease. Violet got obsessed with it. She talked to her dad's doctors, took charge of his care really, wanted to know what to do.” 

 

Sam raised his head to treat Greg and Sherlock to a firm, watery-eyed look. “Violet tried talking to her stepmother and stepsister about it, but they insisted there was nothing anyone could do. They said she just had to accept what was going to happen. She said they were really insistent about it. Wanted her to stop fooling herself and start thinking about the future.”

 

“That's not the reaction you want to hear,” Greg said in a bit of an understatement. How could anyone, even a stepmother and stepsister react so coldly to a family member's impending death? “I know you said Violet didn't get along with them, but…”

 

“Yeah, she was pretty devastated.” Sam agreed. “I thought it was kind of weird, so we decided to research more together. Violet spent a lot of time with me and at the library even though her dad was getting worse. She just said she had to know the answers and all the options for what to do.” He sighed quietly, clenching his hands. “Violet wouldn't say it, but she made it her mission to save him.”

 

“What disease did you say her father had?” Sherlock spoke up again, setting his phone on his leg. He focused his attention on Sam and rapidly asked another question. “And do you have a photograph of them together, just before or since he became ill?”

 

Sam looked caught off guard by Sherlock's sudden questions, glancing over to him. “Uhm, yeah I have a photograph.” He started flipping through the remaining pictures in his file. “Her dad has chronic liver disease. I think the medical name for it is… Cirr- something.”

 

“We can look it up,” Greg quickly reassured before the boy could become sidetracked trying to come up with the difficult medical term. “It sounds like a pretty horrible disease.”

 

Sam’s fingers stilled on one of the pictures before he quickly picked it out. “This is of Violet and her dad, just after he got really sick. He had to stay in bed so Violet stayed home a few days to look after him. Even though her stepmother was there.”

 

He handed the photograph out for Sherlock, saying, “I thought it might help her, looking after her dad. So I got all her homework and helped her catch up.” Sam shook his head, looking pained. “But if anything it just made everything worse. She stopped coming to school; she’d either stay at home or work on researching how to help her dad. She just wouldn't give up.”

 

A soft click came from next to him, and Greg turned to see Sherlock snapping a picture of the photograph Sam had given him on his phone. “Sherlock,” Greg scolded, “What are you doing?”

 

“Taking a picture of the photograph, for my own records and to consult a medical expert,” Sherlock explained, quickly typing out a message on his phone. “Don't you want to verify this is all correct?”

 

Texting John Watson, Greg thought, reading between the lines. It didn't surprise him Sherlock was consulting Watson, seeing as the man was a doctor. But they needed to do some more investigating first.

 

“What happened to Violet then?” Greg questioned Sam, trying to restart the conversation. Beside him Sherlock made an annoyed noise and vigorously typed something else on his phone.

 

“A few weeks later I got a text from her in the middle of the school day,” Sam continued his narration of the events that had brought him to this office. “It said she and the doctors had done some tests and discovered she was a donor match to her dad. So she could give him part of her liver and his chances of surviving would be a lot better.”

 

“I imagine Violet was very excited by that, hoping she could save her dad's life,” Greg commented, impressed by how selfless this girl sounded. Especially for a teenager. But being able to potentially save an ill parent was a very big deal.

 

“Yeah, it was everything to her,” Sam agreed, looking fondly down at the pictures. “She was really excited, did everything to get ready for the surgery. It meant she had to stay home all the time with the doctors, and go through a lot of tests, so I brought her homework over to her place.”

 

“But she didn't end up having the donor surgery,” Sherlock commented in that knowing way he had. “Something happened?”

 

Sam frowned, biting the inside of his cheek. “Maybe? I went over there one day after school, just to check on her and bring her homework. But her stepmother said she was with her doctors and wouldn't let me see Violet at all. Pretty much rushed me out of the house.”

 

Sam picked up the phone from where he'd set it in his lap and clutched it tightly in his hand. “Ever since then I haven't been able to get in touch with Violet at all. She won't answer my texts or messages or calls. I went to her house but no one answered.” His other hand clenched tightly into a fist as his head dropped. “I know she's going through a really hard time and probably has a million different things on her mind. But, I still don't think she'd just shut me out like this.”

 

“You haven't heard from or seen her at all?” Greg asked, reaching out for the pictures on the desk. He held them up in front of him, trying to tell everything he could from the photographs. Greg idly wondered what Sherlock was seeing.

 

“No. She won't answer my texts or calls like I said,” Sam said, sounding frustrated. “Her stepmother and stepsister won't even open the door, no one will.” He raised his phone and shook it slightly. “But a few days ago she started posting again on her facebook and twitter. Not a lot, just a few posts. Mostly about what was happening.”

 

“So she is fine, just not talking or responding to you specifically,” Greg summarized, speaking slowly as he tried to catch up.

 

Sam shook his head violently. “No, I mean yes, but no. She is ignoring me. And I don't know why. But, these texts and posts aren't her. They're on her accounts but they don't sound like her. They're all wrong.”

 

Even with how desperately insistent Sam sounded, Greg still had doubts. Teenagers could be fickle. 

 

But for whatever reason Sherlock seemed suddenly intrigued by something Sam said. He moved forward in his chair to perch right on the edge and held out his hand. “Can I see?”

 

Sam stared at him for a long moment, fiddling with the phone in his hand as he tried to make a decision. Then finally he nodded and quickly unlocked his phone before handing it over. “I have her facebook and twitter pulled up. And you can see my texts to her.”

 

“Thank you, Sam. You've been very helpful, I'm glad you brought this to our attention,” Greg announced, standing to his feet as Sherlock snatched up the cell phone. “If you would wait just outside my… consultant and I need to talk.”

 

“Right,” Sam said agreeably enough as he stood up. He darted a glance to his cell phone Sherlock was currently devouring the contents of, but then just as quickly he turned and began walking to the door.

 

“If Anthea or Sally are out there feel free to ask them if you need anything,” Greg informed the boy as he reached out to the doorknob. “We won't take long.”

 

Sam nodded and promptly opened the door to silently slip through it outside into the hallway.

 

As soon as the door clicked closed, Sherlock set the phone down noisily on the desk and turned to sit sideways in his chair fully facing Greg. “We should take this case.”

 

Greg had just been about to say the same thing, or suggest that they investigate a bit further since he had a feeling there was something more to glean from what Sam had told them. But he quickly closed his mouth again and waited for Sherlock to say more.

 

Sherlock took Greg's silence as an indication to continue. “Sam presented it as a missing persons, not a kidnapping, which may also likely be why the police refused to get involved. He could also just be a jilted boyfriend trying to find the girlfriend who has completely frozen him out. Either way, not that exciting.”

 

Sherlock reached out and picked up the phone again, holding it out so Greg could see the twitter browser page open. “Until you look at her social media posts and texts and compare them to those from before her dad became ill. Sam is correct to be suspicious. I'm very certain they weren't made by the same person.”

 

“So something has actually happened to Violet,” Greg agreed, just confirming what both he and Sherlock had already suspected. “The timing does seem just a bit too convenient. First her dad gets fatally ill and she devotes all her time to look after him. But then when things start looking up she disappears, refuses to leave the house, and makes strange posts online.” 

 

He took the phone from Sherlock and held it up so he could read what was on the screen. “I agree, it sounds like we need to investigate this more. And it will make a perfect case for you to start out on.”

 

Sherlock looked slightly annoyed that Greg had taken the phone, but he shifted his attention to the photographs Sam had left behind instead. “What do you mean ‘start out on’?” He asked. “We've already solved a case together, or have you already forgotten the events of yesterday?”

 

Greg laughed at that because really, he doubted he would ever forget yesterday. “Of course not. But this is our first official case we'll be working together from the beginning. We can see how it goes.”

 

“I see,” Sherlock replied simply, sounding a little flustered. He had yet to look up from the photographs again.

 

“Since we're officially taking this case let's regroup in the conference room.” Greg announced, getting to his feet. 

 

He picked up the file Sam had left on his desk and took the photographs back from Sherlock with only a slight protest. “I'm sure Anthea and Sally are nearby. After we're all together we can have Sam repeat his statement and show them the evidence we have so far.”

 

“And then we can start investigating?” Sherlock questioned, an eager look in his eyes as he stood up. “As it is we're already far behind on the timeline of this case.”

 

“Don't worry,” Greg reassured him as he directed Sherlock towards the door. “I'm sure between the four of us we'll have it solved. We’ll find out what happened to Violet Jones.”

\-----  
Part two soon!


End file.
